Wanderers and Stargazers
by OnTheDownLowe77
Summary: Fifth Officer Harold Lowe's fate becomes entwined with that of a young Irish woman in steerage, and they are irresistibly drawn together on Titanic's maiden voyage. Will their blossoming relationship survive the sinking - or go down with the ship? Cover by StoriesByRosieAnna.
1. Introduction and Disclaimer

Rating explanation: There may or may not be some mature content at some point. If that is the case, I will give plenty of warning. Oh, and Lowe cusses a lot.

The idea for this story came to me in a single fevered weekend after a rewatch of Cameron's Titanic, which I hadn't seen in... let's just say many years, shall we? It's taken almost three months to get the bulk of it written out, but what that means is that this story has a definite beginning, middle, and end; it won't go on interminably, and if you become interested in it, there's no way I'll leave you hanging! In fact, the very last chapter is already written; I have some bits to fill in near the middle to two-thirds, but for the most part it's nearly complete already.

I remember being fascinated, like so many others, with the story of Titanic as a kid, and one person that always loomed large in the tales of that fateful night was Fifth Officer Lowe. In that stilted Edwardian society, he alone emerged as singularly relatable. It didn't hurt that his temperament closely matched my own, which made me like him all the more. It seemed he evoked strong feelings in others, as well, and made quite the impression - mostly positive, sometimes negative, but either way, he proved to be unforgettable, both for the victims of the Titanic disaster, and for me. When I rewatched Titanic, I was once again drawn to his character (even though his personality was somewhat muted, I think, in the movie version). So I wanted to tell a version of the sinking from his perspective - but with a twist. With the writing of this fictionalized account, my fascination with his story has truly come full circle.

This is primarily a romance, with the Titanic as its backdrop. And of course, it's completely fictional. Think of it as based on Cameron's FictionalLowe, but filled in with details from RealLowe's life - with one very important caveat. At the time of the sinking, RealLowe was engaged, and soon after married his long-time sweetheart, ultimately having two children, and by all accounts was very happy. For purposes of my story, however, FictionalLowe is single. Yes, my characterization of him mixes in traits and facts from RealLowe, but I will stretch and fabricate when it suits the story - and he definitely needed to be single for this story to work! There is absolutely no disrespect intended toward any surviving family members of RealLowe, and my hope is that no one is offended.

I owe a lot of my characterization of Lowe to both Lord's A Night To Remember and Wade's The Titanic: Disaster Of A Century. Both offered colorful and fascinating portraits of the officer. But it was Inger Sheil's thoroughly researched and engaging biography, 'Titanic Valour', that added depth to the man and a full accounting of his life before and after the sinking that wasn't available from any other sources. I try to incorporate this information in the story wherever possible; however, any alterations of the facts, whether deliberate or accidental, are all my own.

This story is very near and dear to my heart, and I wanted to make it as realistic as possible - with the exception of the above-mentioned caveat, of course. Because historical accuracy was important to me, I used multiple references and sources, although I won't list them all here because it would sound pretentious, haha. I do want to give a shout-out, though, to Encyclopedia Titanica for biographies of individuals (they have one for every single passenger and crew member on board!), deck plans (which I am garbage at interpreting, so please forgive any stupid errors), and lifeboat assignments and launch times. Of course, despite my research, it is likely that the text is riddled with historical inaccuracies; I take full responsibility for those, and apologize in advance for mucking it up.

Although I want to stress again that this is an entirely fictional portrayal, whenever possible, I like to incorporate RealLowe's actual words (although I rarely quote him directly). Anyone that has even a passing familiarity with Titanic's story will likely recognize some of them. I do change it up, though - they might appear in a different context, or at a different time, or even said by a different character. I also like to put in callbacks, shout-outs, cameos, and Easter eggs in my writing, so feel free to jump in and point them out when you see them

Warning: this turned out to be a rather serious, dramatic (book-length) tale, with very little levity. So there won't be any officer camaraderie or hijinks here - although I love those stories myself! I think I'm just not good with the banter, haha... angst and melodrama are more my thing. Just wanted to give people a heads-up that if they're looking for that type of storyline, this won't be it. And although there are other characters, they are mostly there to support the main romance, which takes center stage; it's not really an ensemble cast. Finally, the language and behavior back then was more formal than it is now, and I have tried to reflect that in my writing (with the exception of Harold Lowe, who does, says, and thinks whatever he pleases).

Final disclaimer: Most of the characters appearing in this story are historical and/or already fictionalized in Cameron's Titanic; thus I don't own them. I only lay claim to the three Irish girls that I created - and the plot, of course.

Would love feedback, as it would help me know if I should keep posting - not sure if people still read Titanic fanfic, especially without Jack and Rose. Thanks!


	2. Chapter 1: The Key

Part 1

The first thing she noticed about him was his voice.

Corrine Donnelly was walking out of the White Star Line offices in Southampton, ticket clutched tightly in her right hand. There was no way she was taking any chances having it fall out of her pocket, or worse yet, stolen in the crush of the crowded streets. That ticket represented more than weeks and months – maybe even years – of hard work in her uncle's shop. It represented freedom, a way out… a new life. Ah, the possibilities! She could do anything in America – imagine it! They said you could come from nothing, with no money and no fancy pedigree, and make a fortune. But Corrine wasn't interested in fortunes; she just wanted adventure, an opportunity to make a life for herself, away from the obligations she owed to countless generations of her ancestors. In America, she would have a chance for a new start - she could be whoever she wanted to be, do whatever her heart chose. The freedom was intoxicating, more precious than gold to her – certainly, it was worth far more than she had paid for her one-way third-class ticket.

Deep in thought as she was, the man's voice still caught her attention. Maybe it was the accent – Welsh, she thought, though she could tell that he was trying to hide it – or the agitation that was apparent in every syllable. Whatever it was, it made her ears perk up, enough to catch the next part of the conversation:

"-need the damn key, and I need it now! We can't sail without it!"

Strange, to hear such strident words in the middle of a well-mannered establishment like these offices. She slowed as she approached the door, hoping to hear more.

"Surely, the entire fate of Titanic cannot possibly rest upon a single key," said a smug-sounding voice.

That did it. She had to hear the rest of this. After all, they were talking about the ship she was just about to board. What could they mean about a key, and why was it so important? She smiled to herself. Her mother had always told her that it was impossible for Corrine to resist the pull of curiosity.

She hovered near the doorway, and, despite the press of people and constant foot-traffic, she took a calculated risk: she let the ticket fall from her hand and flutter to the ground. While she was bent over to pick it up, she chanced a quick glance at the scene. The man on the receiving end of it, bald and middle-aged, stood behind a counter, similar to the one where she had so recently picked up her ticket. He wore glasses and a self-righteous expression. She nearly groaned aloud. There was no talking to a man like that, kindly or otherwise. These petty bureaucrats loved to lord it over common folk; she knew that from personal experience. Whatever that loud man was trying to accomplish, it was practically hopeless.

But who was the man who was causing the commotion? From her angle, she couldn't see the man's face, only the back of his head. He was of average height, and had on a dark-colored uniform. She stood up, folding and shoving the precious ticket deep in her coat pocket, and watched as he took a deep breath, perhaps to calm himself.

"It well might, since the key opens the cabinet for the lookout's glasses," clipped the man in the uniform. He was struggling to control his voice, she could tell, but at least he was making an attempt. "Mr. Blair was to leave it at this office this morning. It was his duty to see to the key on this trip, and when he was reassigned, he forgot to give it to Mr. Lightoller. Even if he did not bring it here, there has to be a spare somewhere, perhaps in the back?"

"I apologize," came the man, sounding anything but sorry, "but I do not have any key, nor do I know where to find one." His perfunctory dismissal was emphasized by a glance in the direction of the clock. "And you are going to miss the maiden voyage of the largest ship in the world if you do not leave now."

"Bloody hell!" the man in the uniform exploded. A few gasps were heard from customers still crowding the office. "You expect us to sail without binoculars? Into the North Atlantic, during iceberg season? We may as well sail blind, you bleeding arsehole!"

The man behind the counter pulled himself up to his full height. "Now sir," he said, his tone condescending, "need I remind you that there are women here, and your language-."

Afterward, Corrine would never understand what had compelled her to do it. She had places to be, a ship to catch. And this man's problems were not hers. She should have minded her own business, like everyone else in the office, and left. But she felt her feet moving toward the two men, almost of their own volition.

"Excuse me," she said, loudly enough to get their attention, but polite enough not to offend. "I apologize for overhearing your conversation, but I may be able to help."

The uniformed man whirled, and Corrine's breath caught in her throat.

It was one thing to have an arresting voice, but it seemed quite unfair to have an equally arresting face.

It was his eyes, really. Corrine had always been drawn to eyes; it was the first feature she noticed in a person. But she had never seen ones like these. It was the intensity that drew her in, made her almost gasp. This man was a storm of emotions, and every one of them shone in those dark depths. She had become so accustomed to the sophistication of middle- and upper-class city life that she had begun to believe that genteel, mannered people lacked any feelings that ran deeper than their insincere greetings to acquaintances in the street. But this man's eyes spoke of daring adventures, sweet sorrow, and unbridled joy – and they apologized for none of it. This was the kind of man who looked out at the world, saw it exactly as it was, and faced it head-on. Then he blinked and focused his gaze on her, and she felt stripped bare. It was as if she had truly been seen for the first time in her life. He stared back, his eyes widening slightly, as if in mutual recognition of a feeling she hadn't even known existed.

And then he spoke, and it wasn't at all what she had been expecting. Inclining his head slightly, he said, "Miss, I am terribly sorry, but I am in quite a hurry at the moment. If you'll excuse me…" He moved as if to turn away from her and back to the fruitless altercation.

His cultured, polite tone – which curiously lacked all trace of the accent evident in his conversation with the White Star employee - contrasted so greatly with the barely-leashed expression on his face that she hesitated, confused. Maybe she had misjudged him. Maybe… well, she didn't want to bother him, after all, and he was in a hurry…

No. She squared her shoulders and stood her ground. She knew she could help, and something inside her was urging her on, telling her that this was not only the right thing to do, but also something that she needed to do.

If there was one thing she knew, and knew well, it was how to calm a belligerent customer. And although this man was not her customer, she still adopted the same soothing manner.

"Sir, my apologies once again." In truth, Corrine wanted to roll her eyes at all the ridiculous formality – if the two of them didn't stop apologizing politely to one another, they would never get anywhere. "But I do believe I heard you mention needing binoculars. Is that true? If so, I know a place very nearby where you can buy some. I would be happy to take you there, if you like."

He stopped. Slowly, his eyes returned to hers. This time they held a silent question – why? She flicked her gaze to the White Star employee, still standing behind the counter, now closely observing their interaction.

A small smile ghosted his lips. "Miss, that is truly a kind offer. I do believe I will take you up on it." And without another word, or a backward glance, he strode toward the door, gesturing for her to follow.

* * *

She blinked in the strong sunlight – the office had indeed been dimly lit – and followed the man out into the crowded street.

Internally, she was chastising herself. What did I get myself into? she thought. Why on earth did I just offer to help a strange man I never met before – and who seems quite emotionally unstable, for that matter? Oh, my uncle is going to kill me!

For that was where she was leading him: to her uncle's small store, a few blocks away from Canute Chambers, where the White Star offices were located. At this time of day, and with the streets flooded with people here to see Titanic off, it would take them almost 10 minutes to walk there. She checked the clock on the outside of the building and sighed. She had very little time to spare, if she wanted to make last call.

She looked up, and found the man watching her. She doubted that he was waiting patiently, and yet he made no move, keeping his gaze trained on her.

Without a word, she began walking in the direction of the store. He strode easily beside her, hands in his pockets. To the world, it looked like he hadn't a care. Corrine knew better.

Her curiosity got the better of her once again. Glancing briefly at him – for that was all she felt her eyes could handle for the moment – she sized him up. Classically handsome face, definitely: strong jaw, high cheekbones, straight nose slightly upturned at the end, wide mouth, firm, full lips – wait, why was she looking there? Quickly she forced her eyes away, taking in the rest of him in a sweeping glance. His uniform was immaculate: polished brass buttons, perfect unwrinkled trousers, cap cocked at a jaunty angle. She didn't think she had ever seen such a well turned-out man…. Wait, was that a ship's uniform? Did he work on a ship? Maybe even Titanic! Her excitement increased. That was why that horrible White Star man told him he was going to be late – he was on the same liner as she! She had no idea what his job might be; she was woefully unfamiliar with the different roles. Maybe a steward? Even a quartermaster? He must have seen so much of the world! And he looked so young – only a few years older than her. Her mind burned with questions for this fascinating man, but she held her tongue, trying to find just the right combination of casual and sophisticated. Just as she got up the courage to ask if he had ever been across the Atlantic before, and how long did it take, and what was America like, and was the food different, and how did they talk, he turned to her and smiled ruefully.

"I do believe you may have saved me from a jail cell," he drawled.

She lifted one brow in question.

"If you hadn't come along, I may have jumped the counter and beat that man raw with my bare fists."

She couldn't help it – she laughed out loud. Not very ladylike, she knew, but then again, she had never been accused of being a lady before. The man looked at her in surprise, and then joined in.

"Maybe so, and for sure you would've won, but you'd still be without your key," she teased.

They stopped at an intersection, and he turned to her again, his expression serious. "Why? Why did you do that for me?"

She shrugged, feeling self-conscious. "Because I know what it's like to be talked to like that, and I don't like it, and I don't think anyone else should have to stand for it, either."

What on earth did she just say all that for? The man needed binoculars, not a confession! What had gotten into her today? Was it the excitement of the trip? Surely it wasn't the effect of this man, standing so close to her, looking at her like…

"Thank you," he said, the sincerity evident in his tone. His eyes stared deep into hers. "No matter if we ever get those glasses, I appreciate what you did for me back there."

There it was again – that lilting, almost musical Welsh accent. Dimly, in the back of her mind, she wondered how he seemed to turn it off and on at will.

The crush of people ebbed, and the brief spell ended. He shook himself lightly, as if remembering his mission, and began walking again. As she hurried to catch up, he asked, "So, that tale of a nearby store that sells binoculars. Was that complete bollocks to get me out of there, or is there some truth to it?"

She laughed again, surprised it was so easy to do around someone who had just a few minutes ago been cursing out a man twice his age. "Aye, there is indeed. My uncle owns an ironmongers shop. And I happen to know that the binoculars are there, because I've been in charge of store inventory for the past two years." In this city nearly every store carried nautical equipment, and her uncle's store was no exception.

For the first time, she wondered at her uncle's reaction to seeing her so soon after her tearful goodbye this morning. At the time, she hadn't known when, or if, she would ever see him again, and her grief was real. What would he think when she turned up on his doorstep not an hour after she had just left?

She brushed her worries aside; he was a good-humored man and knew well her weakness for helping people in need – after all, how many times had he looked the other way when she would sneak bits of leftover food from her aunt's table to feed their widowed neighbor's hungry children? And once he heard this man's story, he would hasten to help.

Her reassurance gave way to a belated realization that she had likely put her foot in it with this man, and her heart sank. Most men looked unkindly upon women who worked, thinking it base and below the station of a lady. Her father had told her as much before she left home and moved to Southampton, but she had brushed aside his concerns. Corrine longed to see more of the world than her small town provided. Because funds were always so tight at home, she knew the only way that this would ever happen was if she were to work, earn enough money for a ship's passage, and sail far, far away.

Not that she hadn't been subjected to unwanted attention during her time at the store. Because of her striking appearance, she was often propositioned, either directly or indirectly, by the customers who frequented the establishment. One man in particular had been quite persistent. He was thin and tall, and had a well-groomed handlebar moustache. He had visited many times, seeking her out specifically each time. During his last visit, he had even offered her a job where, as he said, she wouldn't be subjected to the "coarse insinuations of sailors and other low men." Uneasily, not understanding the kind of work he was offering, she refused; something about him had given her a distinctly uncomfortable feeling, and she was used to trusting her instincts. Another customer in the store at the time later told her that he was an executive for the White Star Line, and was most assuredly not referring to a secretary's job.

Warily, she glanced up at the man beside her. Was he, too, going to be the type of man who disparaged her or presumed too much, just for trying to earn a living for herself?

To her surprise, he was looking down at her admiringly. She was so unused to that sort of reaction that she blurted "What?" without thinking.

"I think it's brilliant, is all," he said. "Nothing better than making your own luck in life. It's how I got where I am today."

Speaking of, she supposed this was as good a time as any to ask her questions.

"Do you work on a ship?" she burst out. So much for sophistication, she chastised herself immediately afterward.

He smiled, a light easy grin considering the hectic circumstances. "Yes, I do. A rather big one, in fact." His grin grew wider.

"Titanic?" she ventured.

He looked down at her. "Actually, yes."

For some reason, her heart leaped into her throat at this confirmation. She ignored it and asked, "So what do you do?"

A note of pride entered his voice. "I'm the fifth officer. I help navigate – you know, guide the ship, make sure it's traveling in the right direction and such."

She almost tripped over her own feet. An officer? She had figured he had something to do with ships, maybe even that he was a seaman… but she was actually in the presence of an officer!

Trying to act casual, she said, "That must be exciting – and a lot of responsibility."

"Ever since I was a lad, all I've ever wanted was to follow the sea," he replied, and she saw a faraway look creep into his eyes. "I've always dreamed of working one of these giant passenger liners, and now it's come true." His eyes cleared suddenly, and he looked back to her, curious. "And what about you? What's your dream, miss? Working at your uncle's store, or something more?"

She didn't know what it was about this man, but she suddenly wanted to tell him everything – pour out her heart, her dreams, her plans… "Actually, I-"

"Mr. Lowe!"

That voice – deep, commanding, so quintessentially British - cut like a knife through the crowd. It did something Corrine didn't think was possible: it quieted the din around her from a roar to a low hum.

It had a similar effect on the man beside her. He stopped abruptly, and Corrine saw his shoulders stiffen slightly. He turned smartly on his heel and waited.

Corrine took a step back as an older man approached. He was vaguely handsome, with a round face, full mouth, piercing eyes, and heavy brows. He too wore an officer's uniform, and carried himself with authority. She knew at once that he was the young Welshman's superior – and yet, the man at her side – Mr. Lowe? - never flinched, even when the older officer glared at him in disbelief.

"Mr. Lowe, I ordered you to retrieve the key, not gallivant about town! We just made final boarding call for the passengers, and yet one of my junior officers still has his shoes on the ground!" the man barked. Corrine noticed that he didn't even glance in her direction.

Mr. Lowe raised his chin. "Sir, Mr. Blair failed to return to the White Star offices. This young lady here" – he gestured at Corrine – "was bringing me to her uncle's store. He sells binoculars, and –"

"We don't have time for that," the older man thundered. Then, as if remembering his manners, he inclined his head toward Corrine, noticing her for the first time. "We are grateful for your generous offer of assistance, miss, but I am afraid we are on a very tight schedule. Titanic will sail with or without us, and I much prefer it to be with."

She opened her mouth to speak, but Lowe spoke first. "Mr. Lightoller, the glasses- I am sure it will take no time at all-"

Mr. Lightoller reached out and, with a flick of his fingers, straightened the young officer's cap with an expression of annoyance. She saw Lowe flush brick-red, but he kept his mouth shut. Then the senior officer turned and began walking in the direction of the dock. Over his shoulder, he said, "I promise that once we get to New York, I will personally buy a set of glasses for every officer and lookout on board. But we must leave, now."

His tone brooked no disagreement. And yet, Lowe hesitated. He glanced at her, and then in the direction they had been heading, and back at Lightoller, as if calculating a mad dash to the store, weighing the risk of insubordination with the urgency of his quest. Finally, realizing that he was out of options, he sighed heavily.

Turning to her, he said, "Thank you – for everything. It means more than you know, and I won't forget it."

Then he touched his cap to her, eyes tinged with regret, and dashed up the crowded way.

She stood in the middle of the sidewalk and watched him hurry after the senior officer. Right before he disappeared into the crowd, she saw him glance back at her one last time.

She waited there for a moment, indecisive. A thought occurred to her - what if she bought the binoculars? She pictured the gratitude on the handsome officer's face as she presented them to him… oh, for goodness sake! She blushed and shook her head, as if to rid herself of those uncharacteristically dreamy thoughts. She considered the idea realistically, but quickly rejected the possibility. The pittance she had saved back from her ticket purchase would be needed for room and board in America until she found work. She couldn't afford to buy even one pair of the expensive binoculars her uncle sold. And she certainly wouldn't ask him to just give them to her; he made too little money as it was to be issuing handouts, even to his beloved niece. Besides, if Titanic could leave without two of her officers, it would certainly leave without her. She simply didn't have the time to spare.

As she began making her own way to the docks, she replayed the events of the morning in her head again. She was certain that there had been some spark between the officer and her, something she had never felt before. Her thoughts lingering on his smile, his eyes, his voice, she wondered wistfully if she'd ever see Mr. Lowe again.

* * *

Historical note: RealLowe spoke English without a trace of a Welsh accent. But I was so taken with Ioan Gruffudd's accent in Cameron's Titanic that I had to write it into this story :)


	3. Chapter 2: Boarding

A/N: I'm just gonna keep posting chapters, in the hope that someone finds this story someday and likes it :)

The next two chapters are mostly exposition, but I needed to spend some time introducing Corrine's backstory, so you know where she's coming from as the story progresses. Plus, it's a chance to feature the third-class accommodations on Titanic; much has been written, in fact and fiction, about first class, but I feel like third class gets short shrift. So think of these chapters as a love letter to steerage.

* * *

As she raced up Ocean Road toward the White Star berths, her ship - the one that would carry her to her new life in America - loomed large and heavy over the town. Of course, Titanic had been in dock for the past few days, and Corrine, along with most of the city's residents, had already been down to see her and marvel at her immense size, her four funnels and newly-polished decks shining brightly in the sun, and the scores of crewmembers scrambling about like ants at the very top of the ship, preparing her for the maiden voyage. She was touted as the largest moving man-made object in the world, and she certainly lived up to her name. Even the skyscrapers in New York couldn't be that tall and imposing, Corrine thought in wonder, struck motionless once again by the sheer magnitude and presence of the monstrous vessel.

But she couldn't afford to stand there and gawk for long. She had to pass through the inspection - and quickly - if she wanted to make the noon sailing. She searched fruitlessly for the health officials, trying in vain to see above the tops of ladies' hats and men's bowlers, until she tugged on a passing sailor's arm.

"I need to find the doctors," she blurted, conscious of the time quickly ticking away. "I'm a passenger on Titanic-"

"That way," he pointed, and continued on his way, obviously in a hurry himself.

She presented herself for inspection as the doctors were packing up their things and preparing to board at the crew's entrance. At her frantic entreaties, a kindly older man obliged, giving her a cursory exam. "You're from Southampton," he said, checking her ticket and handing her an inspection card, "so I'm sure you're fine. Proceed to the E-deck gangway, please."

She stuffed both pieces of paper back into her pocket, and was about to ask which way to the gangway - but he had already walked away.

"Bloody hell," she whispered under her breath, trying out one of Mr. Lowe's expletives - and blushing furiously afterward. She had to find that gangway, and quickly. She darted one way, then another, dodging well-wishers and spectators alike as she frantically searched. If only she knew which direction to go... She counted decks, craning her neck to see to the top, in the desperate hope that she could figure out which one was E deck. She happened to glance over to her right - and saw modestly-dressed passengers walking quickly up a sloping gangway near the stern of the ship, about a hundred feet away. That had to be it! She breathed a sign of relief that it was so close, and began sprinting as fast as her feet - and the crowds - allowed, praying that she wouldn't be too late.

Breathless, she finally reached the bottom of the gangway. A man in an officer's uniform stood at the open door leading from the wooden walkway to the ship. She watched him turn as a second officer poked his head around the corner and said, "That'll do; lower the gangway and secure the door-"

"Wait!" she shouted at the top of her lungs.

They both turned to stare at her. The first thing her mind registered, with disappointment, was that neither one was Mr. Lowe. One was slim, dark, and reserved, and the other was younger and taller, with an open, friendly face.

"Miss, it's too late-" the aloof one sniffed. The younger one, likely his junior, looked dismayed.

"Please," she begged, interrupting. "I have my ticket right here, see?"

She fumbled in her coat pocket, trying frantically to pull the ticket out, but it was stuck. Finally, with a firm yank, the folded, crumpled ticket tore free from her pocket, the inspection card tucked in its folds. She reached out, flushed but triumphant, to present them to him.

He furrowed his brow, sighed, then waved dismissively. "Mr. Moody, take care of this," he said. He handed the ticket to the young man and walked away without another word.

Moody smiled brightly at her. "You made it just in the nick of time," he shared. "And Mr. Boxhall is not usually so magnanimous. You must have impressed him."

Although Moody's own manner was conspiratorial and matter-of-fact, rather than flirtatious, he wasn't wrong about his fellow officer - despite Boxhall's impatience and disdain, Corrine had noticed his eyes traveling appreciatively over her face and frame. She was small - barely five foot tall in heeled boots - and slender, but with generous curves that were only partly hidden under her modest day dresses. Her face was heart-shaped, with full lips and large, wide-set, grey-green eyes that mirrored the ocean she was crossing. Her hair, dark blonde and wavy, was constantly escaping the restraint of the knots and chignons she tried to put it in. Her appearance often attracted attention, and she was used to having people's eyes on her. What she wasn't used to was someone staring into her soul... the way that young officer had earlier...

Stop it, she told herself sternly. You need to focus. Allowing yourself to be distracted by him is the reason you almost missed the ship in the first place!

Forcing herself back to the present, she give the nice officer a friendly smile in return as he tore off part of her ticket and handed the rest back to her. "Welcome aboard Titanic, miss," he said with a little flourish. "They say that the last passenger to board is the most fortunate. And I can already tell that you're going to have more than your share of luck on this trip."

* * *

Corrine negotiated the crowded hallways quickly, bouncing from one side to another to avoid passengers, luggage, and stewards. She had no interest in locating her room at the moment; she was seized by a desire to watch Titanic cast off, to feel the sea breeze ruffling her hair when the giant liner finally pulled away from the dock and left England behind her.

She was soon lost in the labyrinth of passageways and panicked, sure she was going to miss the launch. The three sonorous blasts from the triple-toned steam whistles high above announcing the ship's imminent departure only added to her anxiety. With relief, she spotted a man who introduced himself as the chief third-class steward supervising the chaos at a hallway intersection. Despite the overwhelming task he was undertaking, he cheerfully pointed her in the direction of the staircase that would take her up to the deck.

She flew up and burst out of the door just in time to feel the ship begin to move under her feet. She had emerged onto a low deck, and could see several other decks towering above her toward the forward end of the ship. She glanced behind her, and found to her relief that she was close to the stern, and that she would be able to reach the very end of the ship if she climbed yet another set of stairs from her deck to the one right above it. She bolted for the steps - receiving some surprised and disapproving stares from a group of men that obviously thought she should be more civilized - and raced to the end of the deck...

...before pulling up suddenly. She was awfully high above the water, she realized nervously. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all...

Corrine had long had a phobia of heights. It had been a part of her since childhood; once, when she was almost five, she had managed to shimmy all the way up to the top of a gigantic oak tree. She made the mistake of looking down - and screamed until her throat was raw, clinging to the slender, swaying branches in terror until a teenaged neighbor climbed up and rescued her. It was silly, really; she was afraid of nothing else - not spiders, or drowning, or small spaces, or even voyaging to a brand new country. But the thought of falling... that dizzying drop, the loss of control... made her feel weak with fear, and so she tried to avoid high places altogether.

No. She was determined not to panic this time; she wouldn't let fear spoil the biggest and most important day of her life thus far. She crept toward the railing, taking deep breaths, willing her nerves to calm and her heartbeat to slow. If she could hold onto the railing, she would be fine; it would ground her, keep her from experiencing that terrible plunging feeling. She just had to remember not to look down...

Being small had its advantages, because Corrine was able to slip easily through the crowd, and she soon found a place at the railing, right at the very stern of the ship. She reached out and grasped it with relief, drawing strength from its cool solidity. Behind the comfort of the railing, she gazed out in wonder over the rooftops of her adopted city; she even imagined that she saw her uncle's store far in the distance. But as she watched, they began drawing away from the dock, slowly but steadily pulled by the tugs that were escorting Titanic out to sea, leaving the city behind them. She felt the excitement of the crowd around and below wash over her. The energy was infectious; despite her still-present anxiety, she had a wild urge to laugh and dance, to sing, cheer, and wave at the people still on the dock. It was finally happening, the moment she had been awaiting for years - she was on her way at last, to freedom, to a new life!

Then a series of sharp cracks, like the firing of a handgun, followed by an outcry from the people on the top decks of the ship, shattered her celebratory mood.

Startled, she flinched, clutching the railing in a death grip. What on earth was happening? She couldn't see anything from where she was situated, and she was crowded in so close to the rail that she couldn't move, either. She heard gasps from those on the port side, followed by a terrified shout: "That ship's going to hit us!"

Corrine waited, breathless, squeezing her eyes shut and bracing for a collision... but it never came. She felt a change in the engines, a shift in the ship beneath her. A few tense minutes later, loud cheering erupted from those on the ship as well as the quay, and someone said, "They've got her! And just in time, too!"

Her shoulders sagged in relief at the news. It sounded like they had just averted certain disaster. She was finally able to shove away from the rail, and as she rushed to the port side, she was just able to catch a glimpse of two tugs corralling a much smaller liner that appeared to have broken from its moorings. "Our suction must've drawn her toward us," someone beside her explained when she asked what had happened. "A bad omen," she heard someone else mutter. Corrine shook her head in disagreement. Although the incident had certainly been scary, she didn't believe in omens or signs. And anyway, nothing was going to spoil this incredible voyage for her, she resolved firmly.

Corrine stayed on deck long after the excitement was finally over and her heart rate had returned to normal. The dramatic close call with the smaller ship had caused nearly an hour's delay, but now, at long last, Titanic's engines had started and she was underway on her own power. Corrine had moved away from the railing - there was only so much bravery she could muster in a day, she realized ruefully - but she no longer worried so much about being swept off the edge of the world. The ship was so large, and so solid, that she felt perfectly safe, and she was awed by the way the massive object seemed to float above the open water effortlessly.

After some time, she sensed a presence near her, and glanced over to see a tall, pleasant-looking man standing not too far away, a camera in his hand. He was looking at her, and although it wasn't the same intense gaze that Mr. Lowe had given her earlier, it wasn't aggressive or predatory, either; rather, he seemed curious and interested. She noticed with gratitude that his eyes didn't once glance at her body. So when he tentatively smiled at her, she returned it encouragingly, and he soon fell in beside her.

"Did you see the commotion earlier?" he asked her, and she detected an Irish brogue in his voice.

Warming even more to this man, she shook her head regretfully. "No, unfortunately I was on the wrong side of the ship."

He shrugged good-naturedly and gestured to his camera. "I was lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time, and had a grand view of it." He waved his hand up at the top deck. "Was able to take a few pictures, even." He grinned. "You never know, it might make me famous someday: 'The man that captured Titanic's near disaster', they'll exclaim." He laughed heartily.

She laughed with him. "But just how did you get above, anyway?" she asked, curious. "I thought third-class passengers weren't allowed any farther up than right here." She pointed to the deck where they were currently standing.

Now he looked slightly embarrassed. "I'm traveling first class - at least as far as Queenstown, where I disembark. I'm not really supposed to be down here at all, actually." He shrugged. "But to be honest, I'm far more comfortable among the third-class passengers," he confessed. "I was born in County Cork, you see, and I'm studying to be a priest. So I feel a bit... out of place up there - although they've been very kind," he hastened to add.

"Oh, how wonderful! I'm from Clon myself," she exclaimed, delighted to have found a common connection with this likable man.

"Of course you are," he said affably. "All the best lads and lasses in the world are from Cork." He smiled at her as if confiding a secret, and she nodded in agreement, grinning at the obvious blarney. They stood in companionable silence for a few moments, looking out to the sea together, before he spoke again. "Say, I hope I'm not being too forward..." He hesitated, then continued, "but I was wondering if I could take your picture. I'm documenting my trip for my uncle, who paid for my passage, you see, and I want to show him everything: the ship, the crew, and the passengers - of all classes."

Corrine smiled. She liked his open manner, and the way he looked her directly in the eyes, as if reassuring her that he was safe. And she didn't see the harm. She shrugged. "Of course, Mr...?" her voice rose on the last syllable.

"Browne. Francis Browne, miss."

"Corrine Donnelly," she said, shaking his hand.

He had her sit on one of the benches that were scattered about the deck as he readied his camera. She had never been photographed before, but had been told that one was supposed to look stoic and serious for a proper picture. But at the last minute, she couldn't suppress her joy at her extraordinary circumstances, and her face lit up in a broad smile just as the bulb flashed.

Mr. Browne grinned in surprise as he lowered his camera. "Well, that's a much more winsome expression than I usually capture," he said enthusiastically. "Most everyone insists on being so somber when they're photographed. It's nice to see someone looking spontaneous and carefree for once."

She smiled again. "Maybe I'll be responsible for starting a trend, then, Mr. Browne, once you publish these famous pictures of yours," she teased.

He tipped his hat to her. "Thanks again for agreeing, Miss Donnelly. I hope you have a pleasant rest of your trip." He went to walk back toward the stairs leading to the forward part of the ship, stopped, and turned back around to her. "Say... I don't suppose..." He reached in his coat pocket and pulled out a slim leather volume. "My friend gave me a book in Southampton, right before I left, as a parting gift. I guess he thought I'd have time to read on the voyage, but since I'm disembarking tomorrow..." He shrugged and shook his head regretfully. "I'm afraid I won't have the chance. And I'd rather it go to someone who might get some use out of it." He held it out to her.

Her eyes went wide. "Oh, I couldn't possibly accept, sir. That's too generous a gesture."

He smiled. "Think of it as payment for that picture, then," he said. He saw her hesitation, but also the eagerness in her eyes, and pressed gently. "I insist, miss." He offered again, and this time she reached out her hand and took it.

"Thank you, Mr. Browne - thank you so much," she said fervently. He waved off her gratitude with a final smile and bade goodbye, and she cheerfully wished him well as he turned and retreated down the stairs. She clutched the book in her hand and watched him leave, marveling at how her trip just kept getting better and better.

* * *

When she arrived in room 103 at last, Corrine did a double-take, looking around the space in wonder. Who would have thought that steerage conditions could be so luxurious? she thought to herself. She had heard horror stories from townsfolk who had immigrated to America and come back to visit friends and family; most had described quarters that were filthy, lacked privacy and safety, and were infested with rats. She had thus resigned herself to a week of discomfort, considering it the price she would have to pay for cheap travel across the Atlantic. But this room was anything but dank and dreary; in fact, it was nicer and more spacious than her bedroom back home. It was paneled in white wood and had a red floor, with two sets of two-tiered wooden bunks: one set across from the door and one set on the left wall. Each bed was covered with a cheery red and white blanket sporting the White Star logo, and were complete with pillows and linens. On the right, she saw a washbasin with soap and fresh towels, which was an unexpected but considerable perk. She also noted with a deep sense of gratitude that her trunk had arrived safe and sound and was sitting in the middle of the room. Her uncle had had it delivered that morning so that she wouldn't have to drag it through the crowded streets. A final gift, he had told her gruffly, to make sailing day a little easier.

Corrine wished he could see her now, happily ensconced in a cozy, posh cabin. He certainly wouldn't worry about her anymore if he knew she was traveling in style, and she resolved to write to him at the earliest opportunity and tell him all about this magnificent ship. She spent a half minute contemplating which bed to occupy before deciding on the top one directly across from the door. Then she organized her space, hanging her coat on the hook and stowing her trunk under the bottom bunk.

When she was finished, she spared a glance at the book the man had handed her on the deck, and although she couldn't wait to dive into it, she was simply too excited at the moment to settle down and focus on the words. She wanted to explore the ship... and, she admitted to herself, maybe happen upon that officer with the striking eyes again.

But all that happened was that Corrine found herself lost, multiple times. Her sense of direction had never been great, and now, with the endless number of passageways, stairwells, and rooms, she became hopelessly turned around. After happening upon the same staircase she had taken up to the deck earlier through sheer luck, she descended a few levels, and was soon near the very bottom of the ship, on G deck. But there wasn't much to see down there other than more staterooms; most of that level seemed to be inaccessible to passengers, at least from her end of the ship. Still, she managed to lose her way several times before locating the stairwell again with relief. She ascended to D and pushed open a door that opened onto a hallway that was much quieter than the ones on E deck. Curious, she followed it for some time, and found herself drawn to a staircase handsomely paneled in oak, with green and white tiles and wicker armchairs. She was about to take the staircase back down to E before she was abruptly stopped by a steward, who reminded her that that section of the ship was for second-class passengers only. Mortified, she retreated back down the corridor. Finally finding her way back to E deck again, she struck out toward the bow and was soon traveling down a wide corridor that was crowded with both passengers and crewmembers hurrying in opposite directions. Passing her own room without even realizing it, she meandered what felt like the entire length of the ship before finding another staircase that led down to F deck. She wandered back in what she assumed was the direction of the stern, becoming lost once more in the warren of connecting corridors. The layout of the ship forced her up to E again, and she walked the same corridor she had traversed earlier without recognition and with a growing sense of frustration. She sighed. This place was simply too big, and too hard to navigate without clear signs. Hopefully she would be able to find her way around more confidently in the next few days.

Just as her uneasiness was beginning to turn into panic, she descended yet another staircase, and to her relief found an enormous dining room packed with third-class passengers. She was famished; in the flurry of packing and saying goodbye, she hadn't had time for breakfast, and the excitement of the launch had only increased her appetite. Fortunately, it was tea-time, and the kitchen was serving a delicious meal of rabbit pie, bread, and jam. She sat by herself and ate quietly, avidly taking in the people, her surroundings, and the unfamiliar experience of dining with hundreds of other passengers.

Corrine lingered in the dining room after she had finished, unsure of her next move. She knew that Titanic was due to stop in Cherbourg in an hour or so to pick up additional passengers, and now she contemplated returning above to watch the newcomers board. It would be even more difficult to find her way around in the approaching dark, but... suppose she were able to catch another glimpse of Mr. Lowe? He might be checking tickets and assisting passengers with boarding, which seemed to be a job for the junior officers. And if she were lucky, and in the right place at the right time... no, she was being ridiculous, she told herself firmly. The ship likely had multiple gangways for boarding, and she had no idea where they were located, never mind where he might be stationed. The chances of her getting a peek at him while she was running around the ship in the dark were almost nonexistent. All that would happen would be that she would get lost and freeze outside - if she even made it onto the deck at all.

Sighing, she rose and, after obtaining directions from a dining-room steward, headed back toward her room. This was getting ridiculous. She had only spent a few minutes in the man's presence, and yet her mind and her heart had been at war over him ever since. She needed something to help her forget him for a little while - and luckily, she now had the perfect distraction.

Reaching her room at last, she quickly changed for bed, retrieved the book from atop her trunk where she had placed it earlier, and climbed up to her bunk. She gazed at the cover reverently and then smiled to herself, imagining what her uncle's reaction would be if he knew she had a new book. We won't see you for days now, he would have teased her. Her father would have said something similar as well - but in a far different tone, of course. She frowned unconsciously at the thought of her father. She didn't want to think of him right then. It was painful to think of her family at all, really.

Although Corrine had been living in Southampton with her aunt and uncle for the past two years, for most of her life, she had lived in Ireland. Her father was the caretaker at an inn in Clonakilty; her mother, who both Corrine and her father had worshiped, had passed away when Corrine was eight. She also had two brothers, Paddy and Frankie, who were Irish twins, and significantly older than she was. They were constantly in trouble, and did everything together, so it was no surprise to anyone that, at fifteen and sixteen, respectively, they announced that they were moving to Australia for 'better opportunities'. Corrine had been four at the time, and barely remembered them at all. Their communication was sporadic; the last she and her da had heard, they were working on a cattle station and were very happy - and had no intentions of ever returning to Ireland. Her mother, originally a middle-class Liverpudlian, had been estranged from her family for over thirty years, with the exception of her soft-hearted brother John, with whom Corrine had been living. And because her father's family still lived in County Tyrone - he had moved to southern Ireland many years ago, a result of a poor relationship with his own father and rising tensions over Home Rule - Corrine and her father were well and truly alone in the world.

But before her mother died, she had never felt the pang of loneliness that accompanied lack of family. The three of them had existed in their own little world, and that world had been very happy indeed. Her mother and father were still deeply in love, and their affections spilled over to their youngest, their only daughter. Her mother's insistence on having a daughter was the only reason Corrine existed in the first place. Her father had been reluctant to risk it, given the strain her brothers had put on her fragile body, but she was insistent - and what her mother wanted, her mother received. Tragically, her dream came at a cost: Corrine's birth was difficult, and her mother suffered for the rest of her life afterward. But even though she retained limited movement, she still poured all of her remaining love and energy into her family. Mother and daughter sat together for hours as Eleanor taught Corrine to sew and to read, skills that she took to both eagerly and proficiently. Corrine's happiest moments were spent in the small sun-filled sitting room of their cottage, reading aloud to her mother, who would close her eyes and smile as she listened, swearing that she could picture every detail in her mind as clearly as if it were happening in front of her.

The idyll of their lives shattered when Eleanor passed away. Her father, who had been a source of reliable and steady strength for his beloved wife, was never the same after that. His grief was so all-consuming that he didn't even have the ability to care for his young daughter, and so Corrine was sent to live with her uncle and aunt, whom she had never met before, in Southampton. When she returned to Ireland a year later, Corrine found her father a changed man - and at aged nine, had suddenly found herself responsible for running the house. All of the cooking, cleaning, mending, and washing, which her father used to willingly shoulder when her mother was alive, now fell to her. As a result, although she loved learning and was a quick study, her attendance at primary school became sporadic, and when she was eleven, she realized that she could no longer keep up with the rest of her peers, and reluctantly stopped attending at all.

But she had still read as often as she could; it was her only escape, and she felt connected to her mother somehow when she was lost in a book. She had long devoured every printed word in both her small house in Ireland and her uncle's house in Southampton, and multiple times at that. So Mr. Browne's gift was not only incredibly generous and thoughtful, it meant more to her than he could ever know.

With a sigh of contentment, she lay down on her bunk at last and opened the cover of her new novel. Futility, she mused. It was a shame that her first new book in ages, and the one she was going to read as she was embarking on a new life, had such a melancholy name.

* * *

A/N: Futility, published in 1898 by Morgan Robertson, is also known by another name: The Wreck of the Titan.


	4. Chapter 3: Queenstown

A/N: This is the last Corrine-centric exposition chapter, but there are a few references to Lowe because Corrine's mind keeps tripping over him.

* * *

Corrine woke up the next morning with a smile on her lips. She had been dreaming about Officer Lowe, and although she couldn't remember the details, she knew it had been pleasant. She sighed and snuggled down deeper into the covers, clinging to the gossamer fragments of the dream and wishing she could fall back asleep so that she could see him again.

Why couldn't she stop thinking about that man? She had never been so affected by someone before - and it wasn't like he was the first male she had ever laid eyes on, either. She interacted with men of all ages and social classes at the store, and yet not one of them had made any sort of impression on her heart; nor had any of the lads back home in Ireland appealed to her. She didn't think the anticipation of her journey had caused her to over-interpret a normally banal interaction, either. After all, she had met two other men that day – the young officer who had checked her ticket and the man with the camera, Mr. Browne – and although both had been kind, and treated her well, neither had elicited the butterflies in her stomach that Lowe had. Maybe it was his tempestuous and forthright attitude that had captivated her. She wouldn't be the first girl to fall for a temperamental lout, she thought wryly. And yet, she didn't think he was boorish at all... he had been so polite, almost... gentle... with her yesterday, despite his obvious anger and frustration at the situation he'd been facing. No, it was more than that; in him she had sensed a kindred spirit - and, if she had not been mistaken, he had recognized the immediate bond between them as well. Whatever the cause, and whether it was real or just her imagination taking flight, he had disrupted her normally staid and placid life - and she relished the intrusion of his presence on her thoughts.

But she couldn't afford to linger in bed and dwell on him for long. Her best friends, Katie Walsh and Kate Connor, were set to board today at Queenstown, and she wanted to be ready and waiting when they arrived.

The three of them had grown up together, romping around the picturesque town of Clonakilty and the surrounding countryside as children and then strolling it sedately as they matured into young lasses. It had been a little over two years since she had moved to Southampton, and in that time, she had only seen them once, on a brief return visit to say goodbye to her father this past spring. But she had stayed in touch with both of them through frequent letters, and she never forgot their childhood discussions about moving to America someday. They had spent many afternoons dreaming together of grand adventures, new places, and unlimited opportunities. They had giggled at possibly catching the eyes of rich men and becoming fancy ladies. And although her dreams and expectations had matured since that time, her desire to start a new life in a faraway place had never waned.

So when she had finally set aside enough money for her ticket late last year, she had written them and asked if they would accompany her. She received two enthusiastic affirmations. Katie's passage was being sponsored by her cousin, who worked as a ladies' maid to a senator's wife in Washington, America's capital. Kate's family was fortunately more well-off than Corrine's - likely, she thought cynically, because her father didn't drink away his wages every weekend - and was able to pay for her ticket out of their own pocket. Corrine had spent a few precious shillings of the funds she had put away for her journey on a telegram last week, begging them to hurry and buy tickets on Titanic so that they would be sailing and rooming together. The coal strike had made ship departures uncertain for weeks, but now that things were finally being settled, she wanted to ensure that the steerage tickets wouldn't be sold out before they could get to the agent's office. To her relief, everything worked smoothly, and they were set to be berthmates, along with another girl, Nora Brennan, a friend of Kate's who was making the voyage with them. Corrine didn't know Nora that well. Her father was the constable, and he had expressly forbidden his Nora from associating with the town hooligan's daughter. She wondered drily what her own father had to say when he found out she was sailing with the daughter of the man who had become his nemesis.

Although the thought of leaving everything she had ever known wasn't quite as intimidating as it was when she had first left home and moved to Southampton, Corrine was greatly comforted by the knowledge that she would be starting this new and exciting stage of her life with her best friends. Truly, they were more like family than friends, and many a night she had stayed with either Katie's or Kate's family before ultimately moving to Southampton to live with her aunt and uncle. The girls had been there for each other through thick and thin, including Kate's health problems, Katie's man troubles, and of course, Corrine's clashes with her father after her mother's death, as he became increasingly more withdrawn and ornery.

She pushed aside thoughts of her father once more. It was time to get out of bed, get dressed, and get ready to greet her friends. Her face split into a wide grin. She could hardly wait to see them again.

* * *

Corrine was dancing from foot to foot impatiently in the large passageway on E deck near the gangway door, waiting for the new passengers - mostly Irish - to board at Queenstown. The stewards kept trying to chase her away, barking that they needed to keep the corridors clear for the newcomers to pass through. She would dutifully obey... and then a few minutes later sneak back to her previous position, trying to take up as little space as possible but stubbornly refusing to be deterred for long. Although she didn't want to be underfoot, she didn't want to miss their entrance, either. It seemed to take forever for the tender to tie up alongside Titanic and for the passengers to board... but now, at last, the moment had arrived.

Katie was one of the first to emerge through the gangway door. Of course, thought Corrine with a smile; Katie waited for nothing and no one. She was a striking girl, with auburn hair, pale skin, a pert nose, and an air of nonchalance and mischief that had a way of attracting attention - both positive and negative - from everyone around her. Corrine's heart leaped at the sight of her beloved friend, and it took all her self-control not to run right over to her. Katie's eyes begin to dart around as soon as she entered - looking not at the accommodations, but for her, Corrine knew with a burst of affection. Finally, Katie spotted her as Corrine emerged from behind a wooden bench near the corridor, where she had been hiding from the stewards. "Corr!" she hollered at the top of her lungs. Completely lacking the restraint Corrine had shown moments earlier, Katie shoved past the throngs of stewards and passengers to encase her in a bone-crushing hug.

Corrine rolled her eyes as she laughed at her friend's exuberant greeting. Katie had always insisted on calling her Corr, pronouncing it 'Coor', with a decided roll to the r. Corrine had long ago stopped correcting her; there was no point in doing so, as Katie was always going to do exactly what she pleased and nothing else.

Kate followed more demurely behind her. She was a quiet, serious girl; she had discarded the nickname 'Katie' for the more mature-sounding 'Kate' at thirteen, believing it more fitting for a lady. She was slightly plump, and taller than both Corrine and Katie, with rather plain features capped by soft, kind grey eyes that looked upon Corrine with unconcealed joy. Once Corrine was finally able to detach Katie from her neck, she wrapped her arm around Kate's waist affectionately, leaning in and giving her a gentle hug. As a child, Kate had always been somewhat sickly, and Corrine felt very protective of her, especially in light of her own mother's illness. But she was relieved to see that Katie was looking heartier than usual; perhaps it was the thrill of finally being away from home, on her own, apart from her overbearing and protective parents.

There had been some squawking, of course, from all the families once the girls had announced that they would travel to America alone, without a married chaperone or designated escort. Kate's father in particular had almost refused to let her go, until Nora's father had relented and allowed his daughter to come as well. Apparently, having a constable's daughter on the journey was almost as safe as having the constable there himself, according to Mr. Connor. So although Corrine was a bit hesitant to share her room with someone who probably thought the worst of her, she was grateful for Nora's presence on the trip, as it allowed Kate to join them. Anyway, she'd find a way to overcome Nora's misgivings, she thought determinedly, and by the end of the voyage, she was sure they'd be fast friends.

Speaking of... Corrine searched the crowd trundling past fore and aft for Nora's shiny black hair. "Where's Nora?" Corrine asked the girls. Maybe she had fallen behind, or was still trying to drag her luggage up the gangway, she thought, craning her neck.

"Oh, you wouldn't believe it!" crowed Katie. "The doctors wouldn't let her board. Apparently she has a rash," she said with relish, "and could be contagious."

Corrine turned and looked at her incredulously.

"You don't have to sound so happy about it," Kate said crossly.

"I'm not," Katie amended hastily, "but it's terribly tragic, isn't it? Now she has to wait until she's cleared and take some dingy old second-rate steamer to America." She did look strangely satisfied, and Corrine wondered if Nora had said something to Katie on the journey over to Queenstown that may have set off her hair-trigger temper. Maybe it had something to do with Katie making eyes at her brother last winter, she thought sagely.

"That's terrible," clucked Corrine sympathetically, although she too had to admit she felt a bit relieved that it would be just the three of them, as it always had been when they were growing up, and that she wouldn't have worry about sharing a room with a near stranger.

Somehow, Kate must have tuned in to her thoughts, because she asked, "We are still rooming together, aren't we Corrine?" She looked a little apprehensive, as if Nora's absence had made her wonder if anything else unexpected would happen to them.

"Of course," Corrine assured her. "It's why I waited until the day I left to pick up my ticket in person at the office; I wanted to be sure they had us down as traveling together. And they do," she said triumphantly, double-checking the ticket Katie held out to her for confirmation. "I'll take you to our room straight away so you can drop off your things. It's only a short distance down this corridor."

Once inside, the girls made much of the accommodations, exclaiming over all the same amenities that Corrine had marveled over the day before. They chose their beds and stowed their trunks, chatting all the while about their excitement over the journey and the size of the ship. "It's the most fantastic... the most majestic..." Words failed Kate, and she trailed off with a wave of her hand.

"I can't believe how lucky we are to be here!" Katie gushed, picking up where she left off. "Someday we'll be able to tell our wee ones that we took the most famous ship in the world to America!"

Corrine snorted. "Yeah, and we'll have to get married first for that, won't we? And since none of us are anywhere close, I suggest we focus on the here and now. Our ship of dreams is about to leave the harbor." She took Kate's arm. "Come, let's go above. You do want to say goodbye, don't you?"

They both nodded, and so Corrine led them through the corridor and then up the main third-class staircase onto the deck, the same one she had stood on the previous day when the ship left Southampton. The two girls rushed to the railing, but Corrine held back a bit - just to be cautious, she told herself, and not because she was afraid.

Finally, Titanic's whistles announced their departure, and they waited expectantly, gazing out at the shoreline. After a short time, their patience paid off, and the ship began to pull away from the harbor. The girls were awed by the vibration of the deck under their feet, the chop of the waves as the ship cut smoothly through the water, and chattered excitedly as Titanic picked up speed. Soon, though, the mood changed from jolly to subdued as a man dressed in a kilt a short distance from where they stood played "Erin's Lament" on his uilleann pipes as a final, mournful serenade to the motherland. Corrine watched Katie apprehensively, worried about how leaving home behind would affect her emotional state. Surprisingly, however, Kate was clear-eyed and calm; it was Katie who broke down, sobbing loudly into a handkerchief. Corrine smiled. She knew Katie would be fine once they were well and truly underway; she had been plotting her escape from Ireland from the moment she started wearing her hair up and her skirts long. As for herself, she didn't feel sad. She had already said goodbye to Ireland years ago. Still, she gave a final wistful smile as Queenstown receded and finally disappeared entirely. There was no going back now, for any of them - Ireland was the past, and their futures in America awaited them.

* * *

Almost as soon as she set foot back in their room, Kate had rushed out the door, her hand over her mouth. Now she was continuously retching into a basin that Corrine had hastily snatched from a steward passing in the hallway. Katie fled immediately, but Corrine stayed with Kate for some time, ministering to her as best she could, applying cold damp cloths to her forehead and emptying her basin.

"I'm sorry," Kate apologized between dry heaves. "This happens every time I'm in something that moves - I can't ride in a trap without a bucket - but it'll pass soon, I promise."

Corrine nodded sympathetically. The problem was, despite the decidedly sour smell, she was beginning to feel hungry. And she was wondering where Katie had gone off to. After ensuring that Kate would be fine for a little while, she left the room.

Out in the hallway, she ran into the same steward again. "Thank you again for the basin," she said pleasantly. "I think you saved my shoes from a rather foul-smelling shower."

He smiled at her. "Glad to help - it's my job, after all. Is there something I can assist you with now?" he inquired politely.

"Actually, although I've been on the ship since yesterday, I'm still not sure how to find my way around. I happened on the dining room by chance last night, but I don't think I'd be able to find my way back without help. If you can direct me to it, I would be most appreciative," she replied. She had skipped breakfast this morning again, mostly due to the excitement of her friends' arrival, but also because the size and complexity of the ship still intimidated her - and she hated asking strangers for directions.

"Surely - it's on F deck. You can access it from Scotland Road - er, the long corridor there," he explained. He pointed toward the forward end of the ship. "If you head that way, you'll come to a stairwell that will take you down."

"Much obliged, sir," she said.

"No problem, miss. If you need anything else, my name is Hart." He touched his cap and, smiling cheerily, moved down the hall to assist a family looking for their stateroom.

* * *

"There you are!" Corrine waved at Katie as she wove her way through the innumerable tables in the dining room. People sat clustered in little groups, enjoying a mid-afternoon tea of meat, cheese, bread and butter, and stewed figs. The room hummed with the sound of clanking silverware on china and the excited, eager voices of travelers.

Corrine snatched a plate of food and a cup of tea before sitting across from Katie. "I knew you'd be in the dining room," she teased. "And with the spread here, I can hardly blame you." She indicated the hearty and plentiful fare in front of her. "At this rate, we'll all be fat by the time we disembark." She paused. "Except for Kate, I guess," she mused.

"How is she?" Katie asked.

"The same," Corrine said, sipping her tea. "Still sick as a dog."

"Poor dear. But honestly, I have no intention of going back to the room until she stops that awful retching." Katie made a face and shuddered. "I hate puke."

She perked up quickly, though. "I had a look around while you were still in the room." Corrine smiled, not in the least surprised that Katie had managed to navigate her way around by herself. "This ship is bigger than our whole town!" Katie enthused. "Maybe we should just stay on, instead of disembarking in America. The accommodations here are surely grander than any boarding house we'll find." Although her words were serious, Corrine could tell by the gleam in her eyes that she was joking.

Corrine pretended to be outraged. "But then you'll never meet the millionaire of your dreams," she reminded her in a scolding tone.

"Sure I will, if I become a first-class stewardess," she insisted loftily. "And if not, I can just marry one of the officers instead. The one that checked my ticket today was dishy." She bit her lip and waggled her eyebrows.

Heart pounding suddenly, Corrine asked nonchalantly, "Oh? What did he look like?" She hadn't been able to see the officer in charge of boarding from her vantage point in the corridor, although she had tried in vain several times.

Katie shrugged. "I don't remember the details, but he was a young fine thing, that's for sure. I'd let him wind my little ball of yarn." She snickered at her naughty innuendo.

Corrine shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She hoped Katie wasn't talking about Mr. Lowe; the thought of her spirited and lustful friend making the moves on him made her feel a bit ill. Quickly changing the subject, she asked, "What else did you see on your self-guided tour?"

"Well, for one, did you know the jacks flush themselves?" She giggled. "I nearly had a canary when I went to use it earlier." Gesturing around her, Katie exclaimed, "And can you believe this dining room? When you told me we didn't have to bring our own food, I had no idea we would be treated to this! Can you imagine - we don't have to cook for a whole week!" She sighed in contentment.

Corrine hid a smile. She knew Katie loved to cook, and made the best tripe and drisheen in all of Clonakilty, which was saying something indeed. Corrine, on the other hand, was a lousy hand at the stove. She inherited that from her mother, who never had to learn; fortunately, she married a man with a talent in that area, and unlike most other households, he had shouldered the burden of food preparation until her mother died. After she returned from Southampton, Corrine had taken over reluctantly, but she never quite got the hang of it - and although her father often reminded her of that fact, he never offered to help.

Speaking of... she supposed it was time to address the topic she had been avoiding for days. "Katie, can I ask you something?" she said hesitantly. Katie sat up and nodded seriously, sensing the change in Corrine's mood. "How's... how's my da?" she asked at last.

"The same," she said gently, echoing Corrine's earlier response. "I think he misses you, though, Corr. He always asks if we have any news of you." She leaned closer, putting her hand on top of Corrine's. "He was even at the American wake the other night. I think he's proud of you, to be honest. Tells everyone who stays at the inn that his daughter has a proper job, and she's going to America to make something of herself."

Unexpected tears pricked her eyes. It had never occurred to her that her father even cared. He had certainly never shown it - not since her mother had died, anyway.

Her father Frank was a complicated man, and never more of an enigma than to his own daughter. He was very popular with the guests at the inn, his charm and charisma helping the owner to earn many repeat visitors over the years. He was also a superb handyman, able to fix just about any broken item imaginable, and the inn was always in immaculate repair as a result. But the locals - and Corrine - saw a different side of him: the frequent, sometimes belligerent, drunk still mourning the premature loss of his wife. And although they had sympathy, their patience with his antics only went so far.

Before her mother died, he had been a teetotaler; her mother had once told her that it was because his own father was a drunkard, and he didn't want to repeat his mistakes. Yet after her death, it seemed that the bottle was his only source of solace. She suspected that was the real reason he had sent her away - so that she couldn't get in the way of his downward spiral. She had often wondered why he had forced her to come home in the first place. She had just started to become accustomed to life in Southampton when he wrote to her uncle, demanding her return. She had dutifully come home, whatever her own feelings, because he was her father, and she thought he needed her. But he didn't seem to have missed her at all; half the time she was sure he didn't even notice she was there. In her more maudlin moments, she even convinced herself that he blamed her for her mother's untimely death.

Eventually, their inability to reconnect took a toll on their relationship. For Corrine, his cool indifference cut deep; she was still suffering, too, and his remote, unreachable demeanor had made her feel alone and abandoned. As she grew older, she also realized that she wanted more out of life than to marry some lad from Clonakilty, have children, and grow old in dreary obscurity without ever truly experiencing all the world had to offer. Increasingly, father and daughter had disagreed, and then outright fought, over her desire for a life of her own choosing. Her frustration and anger at having to bail him out of jail and take care of him after his many benders had bled through in her attitude toward him as well. Over time, their arguments grew more vehement, his bitterness more toxic. By the time she was twenty, her despair that she would be forced to lead a colorless and empty life caring for her ungrateful father had turned into hopeless resignation - and that might have been her fate, were it not for Mrs. O'Sullivan.

Five years older than her father, she had been widowed suddenly when her husband collapsed out in the field one day. Now, lonely and with plenty of time on her hands, her children having grown and left, she began calling at their cottage. Corrine hoped she held no delusions of marrying her father. Everyone in town knew that he still held a torch for her mother, and would never even look at another woman, much less marry again. But Mrs. O'Sullivan persisted, selflessly offering food, company... and eventually, an opportunity to escape.

Corrine had been washing dishes one night in their small kitchen when Mrs. O'Sullivan approached her hesitantly. "Corrine, I know you're unhappy here," she had said gently, touching her arm. "You're a young lass with your whole life in front of you. It would be a shame for you to waste it." A pause, and then the offer that set her free: "I can look after him for you."

Corrine had turned and wept shamelessly in the woman's arms.

She had written to her uncle in secret, asking if she could move back in with them. Once she received permission, she announced her plans to her father. They had had a terrible row over it, but she would not be dissuaded - Corrine was a gentle soul, but she also had a backbone of steel when necessary. Ultimately she had won... but the price she paid was near-estrangement from the man who a lifetime ago had showered her with unconditional affection and love.

Katie was still watching her, concerned, so she hastened to say, "That's... that's good to hear, Katie - thank you." She wiped her finger under her eye to catch a stray tear, and said, "Maybe I'll write him while I'm on the ship, see if we can patch things up between us." The thought lifted her spirits. Perhaps the distance between them would do them both good, she thought, and they would find a way to reconcile... somehow.

With an effort, she turned her thoughts back to the present. "Now on to more cheerful subjects. How was the wake, anyway?" she asked.

"It was the craic," Katie enthused. "I refused to let anyone be sad or weepy, and so we had a merry old time, dancing and singing until the wee hours. You would have loved it, Corr! We all missed you there for sure."

American wakes were tradition for Irish emigrants departing for America. Since no one was sure when - or if - they would see their loved ones again, families of the emigrants hosted a leave-taking ceremony the night before the journey to port. Like a traditional wake, it was attended by family, friends, and neighbors, and was a mix of celebration and grief at a loss that felt as final as death. Corrine was indeed sad to have missed it, and felt a sudden unexpected nostalgia as she thought of the town where she had grown up. Did they remember her at all, she wondered?

The spurred her to ask Katie about shared acquaintances, and they were soon engaged in a lively discussion, reminiscing about their younger days and gossiping about neighbors. The flow of the conversation was light, easy, and comfortable; it felt like they picked up their friendship right where they had left off, as if no time at all had passed.

When they had finished eating at last, Corrine stood. "I should return to our room, see how Kate is faring," she said. "Will you be alright here by yourself?"

Katie snorted. "Me? Are you having me on? I'll be queen of steerage before you know it."

Corrine laughed; she probably would at that. Waving goodbye to her friend, she headed toward the door.

* * *

Katie watched her friend leave the crowded dining room. My Corr has a heart of gold, she thought fondly. Too bad she's had a feck of a time with that eejit father of hers. I wonder if she'll ever find her happy ending? She grinned as inspiration struck. Well, she knew one way to find out, didn't she?

Katie's ma had taught her the art of reading tea leaves, and over the years Katie had acquired some considerable skill at it. Katie picked up Corr's teacup, then swirled it several times. With a practiced flip of her wrist, she inverted it over the saucer. She looked at the pattern of the leaves... and what she saw there almost made her drop the fragile china cup. She fumbled it, looked again... no. It couldn't be.

In all of her readings, she had never seen the cross before.

It was a symbol of death, of sacrifice - and it was clear as day in her best friend's cup. Worse, it was near the rim, meaning that it would occur within days.

The sight of such an ill omen put the heart crossways in her. She put a hand to her mouth, eyes filling with tears. "Corr... no," she whispered.

How... why...? Would something terrible happen to her once they landed in America? Oh, should she tell her? Corr didn't believe in such things... but Katie hated keeping secrets from her, and she had a right to know-

"You all right, lass?" came a deep voice at her side.

Jumping a little, Katie quickly swiped the tears from her eyes and looked up. A tall, blonde-haired man stood beside her chair, looking down at her.

"I'm fine," she replied with a watery grin. "Just got something in my eye, is all."

She forced the thought of Corr's disturbing prophecy out of her head and focused on the burly man looking at her so attentively. Putting on her best flirtatious smile, she said, "I'm Katie. Nice to meet you."

* * *

Corrine hurried back to the stateroom - only getting lost once - and found Kate in a similar state as when she had left.

"Oh, Kate," she sighed sympathetically. "I do hope you start to feel better soon. You should see the dining room - it's positively grand! It can seat hundreds! The tables even have cloths covering them, just like in first class! And the hallways are so wide... the fixtures are so fancy... there's real wood paneling everywhere... you wouldn't believe this ship!"

Kate just moaned and turned over. "I can't imagine standing right now," she said, her voice weak. "Even lifting my head makes me so dizzy-" She stopped, swallowed quickly, then took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Corrine, but I'd better not talk anymore." She squeezed her eyes shut.

"I understand," Corrine said gently. "I'll let you rest now." She quietly left the room, closing the door softly behind her.

Now what? Since she wasn't able to return to the room for awhile, she thought she might as well explore a bit more. She had heard that there were common rooms, where steerage was permitted to mingle and socialize, and she thought she might try to find them.

Flagging down a steward in the hallway - not Mr. Hart, and she wondered how many there were on this ship anyway - Corrine was able to obtain directions to the general rooms. It seemed that there were two: one on D deck, and one on C, off of the main staircase. She headed to D first, trooping gamely down Scotland Road and ascending the same staircase she used to go to the dining room below. The staircase ended in the middle of a large open area that she assumed was the room she was seeking. The space was large, stretching the entire width of the ship, with painted white walls and hatches covered with wooden boards in the middle of the floor. The bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling lit up the slatted benches lining the walls, which were occupied by families and groups of passengers traveling together. Children spun tops at their parents' feet, or darted around chasing each other in the freedom of the spacious room, while mothers eyed them closely. The women appeared carefree and happy as they conversed with one another, and Corrine could easily imagine why. For them, she knew, the transatlantic crossing offered a temporary respite from the never-ending drudgery of their everyday lives, and they appeared to relish the freedom. The men, too, seemed relaxed as they chatted and drank by the bar located in the corner behind one of the staircases. The cheery strains of a mouth organ permeated the room, and she smiled to herself, imagining the metal walls ringing with the sounds of an Irish jig.

After having a good look around, she descended back to E and down Scotland Yard again, strutting triumphantly when she realized that she finally knew which direction to go to reach the main third-class staircase. Once she climbed the stairs to C, she peeked in the window at the general room. Unlike the room downstairs, this room had paneled walls painted white, with linoleum tile on the floor. The wooden benches were the same, but the teak tables and chairs scattered throughout gave it a cozy, welcoming feeling. Although it was smaller than the previous area, she saw a piano sitting in the corner of the room - which again invoked visions of a party. The window to the right of the staircase showed a similarly furnished smoking room, which was occupied by clumps of men puffing on cigarettes and enjoying beer and whiskey from a nearby bar. Corrine sighed happily. Titanic really did provide exceptional comforts and accommodations to even its poorest passengers.

Instead of heading into the general room, however, she decided on an impulse to exit the alcove and go onto the well deck instead. As she stepped outside, she took a deep, cleansing breath. Oh, it was nice to feel fresh air again! The smell of new paint, and food, and of course Kate's sour stomach, had become overwhelming, and the scent of the sea was a refreshing change. Despite the cold, the sun shone down pleasantly, further buoying her spirits. She wandered to the port side of the ship, idly considering a promenade around the deck, and realizing with amusement that with all the walking to and fro that she had done since boarding, she was going to be in fine physical shape by the end of the journey.

"Oi! Corr!" Katie said suddenly from behind, startling her. She turned and saw Katie leaning against the railing, waving at her. "When did you get here? I thought you were back in the room!"

"I was, but Kate is still not well, and needed some rest," Corrine explained. "And where have you been, anyway?" she asked, noting her friend's animated expression as she made her way over to her.

"In the dining room, up until a minute ago. I met a fella," Katie confessed breathlessly.

Corrine, not the least bit surprised, raised her eyebrows, indicating for Katie to continue.

"He's a ride for sure: tall, and has blonde hair, and built like a barn door. We flirted for a bit, but his friends fancied a game of cards in the smoking room, so he had to leave." She sighed. "I hope I run into him again soon."

Corrine rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "Katie, I'll ask again - what about your millionaire husband-to-be?" she teased.

"Well, I can surely have my dalliances before then, right?" Katie sassed back.

Corrine threw her head back and laughed in amused exasperation. Katie would never change - nor should she; she was indomitable, and secretly Corrine had always admired - and envied - her carefree attitude.

It wasn't long, however, until Katie turned her attention back to her original goal. "On second thought, though, maybe I shouldn't let myself get distracted," Katie said, gazing up at the first-class area with a sigh of longing. "Oh, Corr, wouldn't it be grand to travel in such luxury?" She looked at Corrine, her face hardening into an expression of determination. "And someday I will, you just wait and see."

Corrine suppressed a smile. She may have grown out of her childish dreams of marrying a millionaire, but clearly Katie hadn't. Of course, Katie thought that the first step in marrying a millionaire was meeting one; hence her eagerness to work as a lady's maid in America, home of new money and endless opportunities. And with her looks and personality, mused Corrine, it wouldn't be too long until she had achieved her dream. Corrine shuddered. The one job she didn't want when she finally arrived in America was that of a lady's maid. She had met enough upper-class women - and their harried and downtrodden servants - at the store to know that she would never be happy doing such work.

She glanced up to where Katie's attention was focused. Several levels above their own was a deck that extended out past the others into open space. Well-dressed couples strolled arm in arm, occasionally glancing down at the steerage passengers on the well deck below as if at animals in a menagerie. Corrine had a sudden urge to cross her eyes and stick out her tongue at them, and resisted, but just barely.

Katie had stopped gawking at the nobs long enough to catch the mischievous gleam in Corrine's eyes. "Oh, no, you don't," she warned her. "Behave yourself; I'll not be having them report you to an officer for your insolence."

Well, that wouldn't be such a bad thing, would it? Especially if they called on handsome Officer Lowe to scold her.

Corrine giggled impertinently at the thought, and Katie elbowed her a reprimand - and then let out a shriek as Corrine gave her the very face she had held back just seconds ago. Katie's mock outrage dissolved into giggles, and Corrine's own high peal of laughter rang out loudly, likely startling the toffs above. She could feel them watching her - and she didn't care one bit. She might be poor, but at least she was free of the constraints, rules, and formalities that they had to endure. She glanced up at them again. Look at them up there, all snobby and-

Wait. Was she dreaming?

She did a double-take, and stared hard. Near the railing stood an officer clad in a dark blue uniform. His eyes were boring holes into her.

It was Mr. Lowe.


	5. Chapter 4: What's in a Name

"Why is that officer looking at you like that, Corr?" asked Katie warily.

Corrine was frozen. She couldn't believe her eyes. She had just been thinking about him seconds ago... and there he was, materializing as if out of thin air - and staring straight at her.

"Corr!" Katie prodded her with her elbow. "Good God, love, what is going on?"

"Er... I... we met yesterday, in Southampton," Corrine stammered, not able to take her eyes off of him.

And then, with a whirl, he disappeared.

Disappointment lanced through her. Surely he had recognized her, right? She thought maybe he might wave, or smile... but no, just that intent stare, and then he vanished as suddenly as he had appeared. Silently, she berated herself for even bothering to get her hopes up. She had obviously mistaken his curiosity for something more. Maybe he was just trying to place where he had seen her before, and once he did, he had quickly lost interest.

She groaned out loud for being such a fool and turned to walk back toward the door to the staircase and the lower decks. Katie, still mystified, quickly stepped in front of her. "Exactly what was that about?" she demanded. "What aren't you telling me? He was looking at you like-"

She stopped and caught her breath. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," she breathed, staring at something behind her. Corrine turned around... and saw him standing behind the gate at the top of the stairs to the second-class promenade on the port side.

If anything, he was even better-looking than her mind had remembered - and she had conjured him up enough in her head the past few hours to know. His face was unreadable, but his dark eyes... well, they registered a mixture of confusion, surprise, and pleasure.

Behind her back, Katie nudged her. "What are you waiting for, love?" she hissed impatiently. "Go over there and see him!"

Her heartbeat racing, Corrine glided across the deck toward him as if drawn by an invisible but powerful string. "How do you do, Mr. Lowe?" she said as she reached the bottom of the stairs, taking care to appear unruffled and keep the giddiness out of her voice.

"I don't believe it," he said slowly as she approached. "It _is_ you!" She watched as he fumbled with the lock on the gate, seemed to curse under his breath, and finally got the mechanism to release. He descended the flight of stairs until he was halfway down. "I thought- I never thought I'd see you again, and yet here you are!" He suddenly blushed, as if realizing that he sounded too eager. His tone changed. "Why didn't you tell me you were sailing on Titanic, too?" he demanded. "You never thought to mention that detail yesterday?"

She suppressed her internal mirth at the return of his feistiness. "Well, to be fair, you never asked," she said innocently, disarming his bluster with a charming smile.

He chuckled, chagrined. "Fair point, I suppose," he conceded. Then he looked closely at her. "Any other secrets I should know about?"

"No," she smiled. "But it seems that you have one. How did you get down here, from up there" - she pointed to the upper deck - "so quickly? Are you really Mr. Houdini in disguise?"

He gave her a cocky grin. "Ship's secrets," he intoned in a low, mysterious voice. At her confused expression, he quickly confessed. "There's a hidden ladder for crewmembers only that runs from the boat deck above to here."

"A secret passage!" she exclaimed, entranced. "How delightful!"

He looked at her curiously, obviously caught off-guard by her unexpected interest. She saw an idea dawn in his eyes, and he opened his mouth to speak, then hesitated. Finally, he blurted out, "Miss, I owe you for saving me from that tough spot back in Southampton. Do you... I mean, would you like it if I showed you around a bit? I mean, if you're interested, that is," he finished lamely.

Was she interested? Oh, he had no idea just how interested she was.

She looked back at Katie, who was out of earshot but had obviously caught the drift of their discussion. She waved Corrine on a little too enthusiastically.

She started to ascend the stairs, but about halfway up she hesitated, looking around nervously. "I don't think steerage is permitted on the top decks," she said regretfully.

He gave her a warm, open smile that made his face light up. "Don't worry; you're with me, and I won't let you get into any trouble." And yet, she saw a flash of mischief in those expressive eyes... almost as if those last words, said flippantly, had a touch of innuendo.

He must have realized it at the same time, for he blushed again, and quickly waved his hand at her. "Come on, then, if you're not too scared."

Scared! Her? She practically leaped up the remaining stairs. He relocked the gate behind her, then walked forward with purpose. She tagged along behind him until he reached a narrow metal vertical ladder clinging to the outside wall of what looked like a large public room. She let her eyes travel upward and saw that it traversed two decks, finally ending flush with a railing at the very top of the ship.

She shuddered slightly. It looked so far up, and oh, how she hated heights... but still, she had been trying to condition herself against this fear since she had boarded the ship - it was one of the reasons she forced herself to go to the railing yesterday and take the top bunk in the stateroom, after all. And she was curious -

"Can I go all the way to the top?" she asked, giving him a sidelong glance.

"Are you serious?" he responded, flabbergasted.

She shrugged. "Of course. If you're going to show me around, I want to see as much as possible. If you're allowed, that is," she hastened to add. She certainly didn't want to get him into any trouble on her account.

He smiled slowly. "I think I can manage it," he said. "Now, be careful," he admonished as he put his foot on the first rung. "I wouldn't want you to slip."

"Maybe you should let me go first, then, so you can catch me," she responded tartly.

"Well, that wouldn't be very proper, would it?" he said, his attempt at casual detachment spoiled by his furious blush.

Too late, she realized the same thing, as she pictured in her mind the position of his head and her... um, posterior. "Sorry- I'm so sorry," she fumbled, her own face reddening now. "Please, go ahead." She waved in the general direction of the ladder, too embarrassed to look at him.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him start to climb, and after he had ascended a few rungs, she hesitantly began her upward climb as well. She was halfway to the next deck before she made the mistake of looking down. She gasped and clung to the rails, resolutely looking upward at him until she regained her equilibrium - and her courage. Luckily, he didn't seem to notice. He was too busy scrambling up the ladder and drawing her attention to the sights around them.

"This is the first class a la carte restaurant, by the way," he said, pointing in the window at a room with beautiful wood paneling, silk curtains, thick plush carpeting, upholstered chairs, and elaborate place settings.

She looked in briefly without much interest, then made a dismissive noise. "I'm sure it's grand..."

"But?" he prompted. He had paused his climb to look down at her.

"But you should see the accommodations in steerage!" she enthused.

His surprised laugh carried all the way to the top deck.

They kept climbing, and he next drew her attention to the first-class smoking room on the deck above, where the titans of industry and titled aristocracy puffed on cigars and drank highballs in leather-covered chairs clustered around a marble fireplace. Fortunately, none of them happened to look outside to see the two of them scurrying up the ladder like monkeys; she was certain they would view that as favorably as she viewed them.

Finally, they reached the topmost deck. Nimbly, he leaped off the ladder and onto the deck, and turned to wait for her. She followed closely behind, and was just about to grab onto the railing for support to pull herself up the final rung when he reached down to take her hand.

The touch sent a jolt of electricity through her entire body. For he wasn't taking it as a gentleman would, with the barest touch of fingers beneath her outstretched palm. No, he had taken full possession of her hand, gripping it firmly and pulling her toward him.

For a frozen moment they stood like that, her hand in his, eyes locked on one another. And for the first time since boarding Titanic, she felt unsteady, off-balance... as if her world were shifting right beneath her feet.

After another heartbeat, he dropped her hand. He cleared his throat, swallowed, and then, embarrassed, looked to the deck.

An awkward pause followed, during which she wondered if he was having second thoughts about inviting her up there. Eventually, though, with a gesture, he ushered her forward. She fell into step beside him as they began to walk.

She looked around curiously. My, things were different up here, she thought. Rows of covered lifeboats lined the outermost edge of the ship, while the four huge funnels towered above them in the middle, the lines supporting them stretching tautly down to the deck. There were benches and steamer chairs hugging the shelter of the ship, some of which were occupied by first-class passengers who were bundled tightly against the cold. Stewards bustled around them, bringing them hot drinks and other comforts. She also notice several covered areas further down, closer to the bow. She didn't know what they were... first-class cabins, or maybe the officers' quarters? She wondered which room was his, and what it looked like, and whether she could see it... and the decidedly inappropriate thought caused a blush to creep into her own cheeks.

She glanced over at him furtively. He had a certain swagger to him on the boat deck that she hadn't seen when they were rushing through the streets of Southampton. Maybe it was pride in his role as an officer, she thought, or maybe just his sea legs coming in. He noticed her watching him, and she quickly looked away. When she glanced back, she saw that he had been doing the same, and now it was his turn to suddenly find something interesting on the horizon. My, this is getting awkward, she thought.

"So, has your trip thus far been comfortable, miss?" he asked formally.

She relaxed a bit, glad he had broken the silence that had formed since their charged touch a few minutes ago. "Yes, quite," she responded politely.

"No symptoms of seasickness, then?" he inquired.

She smiled. "None at all. Steerage may be the salt of the earth, but we're made of stronger stuff than most. Well, at least some of us are," she amended. "My berthmate and friend hasn't stopped being sick since she stepped foot in our room. It's the reason I came out to the deck for some fresh air."

He laughed. "Completely understandable. I was sick as a dog my first time on the open sea. Unfortunately, I was also the cook's boy, which meant I was retching while slicing potatoes. I'm surprised they didn't toss me from the stern, actually."

She chuckled at the mental image. This man probably had some interesting stories to tell. And she could listen to him tell them all day, she was sure. She noticed that when he spoke of his time at sea, he lapsed almost unconsciously into the lilting Welsh accent she had noticed earlier. When he had first greeted her, it was in his more formal voice, with the clipped tones. She wondered at that, and resolved to ask when the time was right. But for now, another curiosity superseded it, and she turned to address him.

"How is it that you even have time to so casually stroll the decks, Mr. Lowe? Are you off-duty? Or is the ship navigating itself?" she teased.

"Actually, I go on watch in about an hour. If I had any sense at all, I would be sleeping right now," he admitted ruefully. "The duty schedule of a junior officer is quite brutal, and we must sleep whenever we can."

"So why are you not, then?" she asked in surprise.

"Because I can't," he said simply. "The passengers aren't the only ones excited to be here. The whole crew is practically bursting with pride, and every spare moment we get, we're playing about the ship, learning its secrets."

The way he said it reminded her of a child that had been handed a shiny new toy. It was charming and sweet, and she practically melted.

She grinned up at him. "Well, if you ever find out any more secrets, please be sure to ring me up."

He chuckled. "I would, at that - but I don't even know your name. You know, we've never been properly introduced."

"It's Corrine. Corrine Elizabeth Donnelly," she said.

He stopped walking, looking at her in surprise. "Corrine... Donnelly? That is quite the mixed lineage you must have, then," he teased.

She lifted her chin. "My father is from County Tyrone, but my mother was from Liverpool. I'm as equally proud of one side as I am the other."

"As you should be," he hastened to reassure her. "I meant no insult, truly."

Oh, her sharp tongue! What on earth was wrong with her? "I know, and I'm sorry for my outburst. My mouth sometimes runs ahead of my mind," she confessed sheepishly.

He lifted an eyebrow at her and smiled. "Then it appears we have a lot in common, Miss Donnelly." The way he said her name was like a caress; she had never heard it pronounced so beautifully.

He commenced walking again, and she fell into step beside him. "Let us make a promise to one another," he said resolutely. "The rest of the world may judge us for our forthrightness, but we should always be honest with each other, at least."

Her heart caught in her throat. Oh, this man was truly sweeping her off her feet, and no doubt about it. It was like he could see straight into her heart and soul, pick out the strings that would resonate most, and play them like a master fiddler. She nodded. "Yes, let's, and it'll be our little secret, then." She winked at him playfully.

He goggled at her, and then winked right back. And at that, she knew the battle for her heart had been lost.

They strolled slowly past the first-class smoking room, keeping to the interior of the ship. It was slightly warmer there, and the crowds were fewer. Corrine could tell that, although he was relaxed and comfortable, he was also alert, watching carefully for the presence of superiors who might be present on deck.

Picking up the conversation where they had left off, she said, "My mother named me Corrine. She had always loved the name, and promised herself as a girl that she would one day have a daughter who would bear it. She picked a variation of the traditional spelling, as well, so that it would be truly unique." She laughed and spelled it for him, and then continued, "What she didn't expect was to fall in love with the caretaker of the inn where she stayed while on holiday with her family one summer in Ireland. She gave up her comfortable life in Liverpool - and her family as well - to run away with my father. But she always remained proud of her origins, and she later told me that it was only fair that, since I have an Irish name, I should also have a proper but beautiful Anglo one as well."

She didn't think she had ever strung that many sentences together for a man in her entire life until now. There was something about this officer that made talking so easy and effortless, she felt she could go on for days. But listen to her blather away! She had probably bored him to tears already. She chanced a glance his way, and saw that all of his attention was focused on her.

"How did you end up in Southampton, at your uncle's store?" he asked. His curiosity was genuine, then.

She shrugged dismissively. "Well, that's a bit of a long story, and one you'll likely not want to hear." She looked away, hoping to change the subject, but he touched her arm.

"I would like to hear it, actually," he said gently.

Was it her imagination, or did his hand linger on her arm a second or two longer than necessary to get her attention? Again, that feeling of electricity made her arm tingle. She nodded, and said, "All right, then. Despite my parents' happy marriage, my mother had always been sickly, and after me - the third and last - she steadily deteriorated. Her health never recovered after I was born, see, and she was mostly confined to a chair. But her mind was strong, and so was her personality. My da says I take after her in every way," she confessed.

His mouth quirked up. "She must be quite a woman, then." Almost immediately, he blushed. Quickly, he covered his embarrassment with a wave of his hand. "Sorry for the interruption. Please go on."

"Well, as I said, she never truly recovered, and when I was eight, she passed away." She closed her eyes briefly at the memory. Even though it had been fourteen years ago, she still remembered holding her mother's hand as the life left her eyes. "My da... well, he was sunk in his grief, and didn't know the first thing about raising a little girl on his own. My brothers had both gone by that time, and so he decided to send me to live with my mother's brother and his wife - he and my mother had reconciled a few months before her demise. My stay with them was only meant to be temporary, and it was, but when I was older I returned to live with them permanently. I suppose I felt more at home there - and besides, my uncle used to let me help at the store, which kept me busy. Eventually, he even hired me on, as a sort of apprentice, you see. He never had any children of his own." She smiled. "So, in a way, I'm luckier than most. I have two families."

Now she had said too much. Of course, she had left out the more complicated details of her relationship with her father, but still... this worldly officer, this near stranger, probably had no interest in her rather ordinary working-class upbringing. Why did she have to go into all that excruciating detail? Daring to glance his way, she was surprised to find that his dark eyes were full of sympathy. "I'm sorry to hear about your mother, Miss Donnelly. I too lost my mother a few years back." He sighed. "She was the rock that I depended upon during my childhood. My father and I have a rather... complex relationship, but I could always count on my mother to support me and defend me, no matter the cost to herself. So I know firsthand that losing a mother is a pain that never truly goes away."

She was stunned. That this man had bared his heart to her, in the same way she had done with him, moved her deeply. What's more, he understood her in a way that her lifelong friends didn't. He knew the grief of losing a loving mother, the frustration of having a difficult father. And rather than become a victim of circumstances and wallow in self-pity, he had done something extraordinary with his life. His determination to follow his heart in the face of adversity only endeared him to her more.

"I'm sorry for your loss, too, Mr. Lowe," she murmured. "It seems we have more in common than a ship's officer and a ironmonger's clerk should, after all."

He smiled easily down at her. "You are much more than just a clerk, as you proved yesterday in that office. You were a bloody brilliant mediator and peacemaker." She fairly glowed with the compliment.

His brow clouded for a moment. "That reminds me, Miss Donnelly-"

"Corrine," she interrupted.

"Corrine, then," he said, and then blushed again. "Er... right. I want to apologize for my intemperate language when we met. It was... rather coarse, and I'm sorry you had to hear it."

Caught off guard, she said without thinking, "You're not sorry. You said what you said, and you meant what you said." As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she wanted to kick herself for her utter tactlessness.

He looked at her with surprise, and with another emotion she couldn't quite identify.

She shrugged. She was in it now, might as well speak her mind. "You cuss like a sailor. So what? You're a sailor, aren't you?"

Now he stood there, his mouth agape with astonishment. "Aren't you at least supposed to pretend to be offended? I thought that's how ladies act."

"First of all, Mr. Lowe, I am no lady," she pronounced daintily. He smothered a chuckle. "And second, my father happens to be fluent in the language of cursing. I probably know more filthy words than you do, as a matter of fact. So, no, you can't offend me, Mr. Lowe," she finished cockily. "I am Irish, after all."

He roared with laughter, startling two first-class ladies who were huddled under blankets nearby. They sniffed pointedly and returned to their books, studiously ignoring them.

"I don't think I've ever heard it stated that way before. You're quite a bold lass, aren't you?"

Oh, you have no idea, she thought mischievously. But maybe... just maybe... if you keep looking at me that way, you may find out.

* * *

A/N: This chapter is continuous with the next, but it ended up being really long so I had to find a logical breaking point.

Historical note: the placement of the ladder is purely fictional (at least to my knowledge), although I did base it on Walter Lord's description of "an emergency ladder meant for the crew's use...near the brightly lit windows of the First Class a la carte restaurant" (A Night To Remember, Lord).


	6. Chapter 5: Save Me

My first review! Thank you MinoanPrincess1827 - your kind words made my heart sing! I'm so very grateful for the support! Yes, I absolutely will continue to update this story; believe it or not it's already pretty much done. I have 30 chapters finished, with around 4 more in various stages of completion, not to mention all the one-shots associated with the main story... this thing's a beast! I plan on posting a new chapter every week as long as there's interest.

A/N: Fair warning: like Harry and Corrine, I don't have much regard for Edwardian social constructs, and so I tend to run roughshod over most of the first-class passengers in this story.

* * *

They were just nearing the forward lifeboats when a door suddenly burst open right in front of them, slamming into Corrine's arm. "Ouch," she cried, startled, and rubbed her shoulder.

A man in an expensive suit and a top hat emerged from a vestibule, followed closely by a woman dripping in silks, furs, and diamonds. Rather than apologetic, they looked decidedly put out. "Say, watch where you're..." the woman began, her American twang sounding harsh and grating to Corrine's ear. Then she focused in on Corrine and narrowed her eyes in distaste. "Wait. Darling, what is this? Is the White Star Line now allowing steerage to mingle with the rest of us?"

Corrine's cheeks flushed, and she stared at her boots. She was suddenly very conscious of her too-plain dress, her lack of jewelry. She knew she stood out like a sore thumb up here, but she didn't think anyone had the gall to point that out. Obviously, she had been wrong, she realized miserably.

"How positively boorish," the man tutted, not caring that he was discussing her as if she weren't there - as if she weren't even human.

Corrine wanted to turn and sprint back the way she came as fast as she could. But her shame rooted her to the spot. Like a predator sensing a meal, the woman stalked closer, moving in for the kill. "I will have to make a report to the captain," the woman said in a silky tone, eyeing Corrine up and down. "They are supposed to be... quarantined... for our health and safety."

"I assure you, that would be a mistake," said a smooth, cultured voice beside her.

She raised her eyes to find that the officer next to her had changed completely. His face looked as white and cold as marble, and his eyes glinted with steel. His body thrummed with barely-suppressed fury, but his voice remained calm and authoritative. "The captain has given permission for the ship's officers to bring their betrothed," he emphasized the word, "to the boat deck for an exclusive tour." His lie was smooth and delivered with utter aplomb.

The man looked abashed, but the woman still appeared doubtful. Lowe stared her down, unblinking, until finally she averted her eyes.

"But now we should be returning, my darling," he said, looking down at Corrine and flashing her a dazzling smile. "The rest of our party are waiting on us for dinner." Again the lie slipped easily from his tongue. He offered up his arm, and she slipped hers through it, grateful for the reassuring touch. She nodded silently, still not trusting herself to speak. But the gentle press of his arm against hers thawed her frozen limbs, and she found that she could move once again.

They turned in a wide circle away from her tormentors and began making their way aft again. She drew strength from the steady presence at her side, from his unwavering support. And as she glided past the still-glaring couple, she felt her confidence and self-assurance return in full force. She tossed her head regally and lifted her hand, pretending to check her nails. Then, with a graceful flick of her wrist, she made an extremely obscene and rude gesture to the couple. She stuck out her tongue and wagged it at them for good measure.

The wealthy couple stood staring at her, mouths agape, as they passed by. Then the woman grabbed her husband's arm and rushed him back into the safety of the ship, squawking the whole while about filthy, ill-bred, lice-ridden peasants.

They weren't the only ones shocked. She turned back to find Lowe staring at her in frank admiration.

"You know, when you said you knew how to cuss, I thought you were bluffing," he said with wonder. "But I think you really could give me a run for my money."

It was all too much. The preposterous situation, mixed with her gratitude for his presence, giddiness at her own impertinent behavior, and the sting of humiliation, were more than she could contain. It all bubbled up inside her in a combination of tears and hysteria. Finally, she lost the battle. She doubled over with laughter, holding her stomach with one hand while still clinging to his arm with the other.

When she finally quieted, having gotten it out of her system, she straightened up and looked at him. His eyes held a similar amusement - but also a touch of sympathy.

"Thank you for standing up for me back there," she said quietly.

"It's no more than you did for me, remember? Besides, it was only right. I'm the reason it happened in the first place. If I hadn't invited you up here, you wouldn't have been subjected to that-" he waved his hand back in the direction they had come as words failed him.

She looked at him closely. His body was still tense, his handsome face clouded with fury. She realized that it must have required quite an effort on his part to restrain himself and act civilized when he was that angry.

"It wasn't your fault at all," she said quickly, trying to calm him. "They're just terrible people." Giggles threatened to overtake her again at the memory of their indignant faces, so she quickly changed the direction of her thoughts. "And besides, I don't regret a thing; it's been more than worth it to be up here." With you, she finished in her head, but didn't say it aloud. "Are you going to get in trouble, though? What if they report you?"

"Then I'll just say they're lying. I don't give a tinker's damn about the nabobs on this ship," he said, venom lacing his voice. "That's my employer's concern, not mine."

He was still fuming, she realized with surprise. Time to change the subject... maybe watch him squirm, even. She smirked. "Speaking of bloody brilliant... 'betrothed'?" she teased, arching an eyebrow at him. "Wherever did you come up with that one? And more importantly, just when did you propose to me?"

He blushed deeply, but it worked - she had effectively distracted him. Regaining his composure quickly, he answered, "Yes, well, I prefer to give the future Mrs. Lowe as little notice as possible. Minimizes the probability of rejection." He affected a snobby English tone, as if discussing business mergers instead of a lifetime commitment.

She snickered, and soon they were both once again engaged in uproarious laughter. With a great sense of relief, she saw that his earlier good humor and swagger had been restored at last. If anything, it seemed that the confrontation had made him even more at ease with her than before. And now it was time to get the answer to the question she had been wondering for quite awhile. "Tell me something, Mr. Lowe," she said innocently. "Where do you stow your accent when you're not using it?"

He laughed again. "You've noticed, eh?"

"It's quite noticeable, when you pay attention," she retorted, and then, rushing to cover her gaffe, she said, "I mean, not that I have been, or anything."

He gave her a sly grin, but let her hasty correction pass unchallenged. "My former captain told me that I would advance faster through the ranks and be chosen to serve on these giant liners if I were to lose my 'Wenglish', as he called it." He shrugged. "It was a good bit of advice, so I took it. I was able to blend in better when I made myself sound more... cultured."

"So you can turn it off and on at will?"

"Not exactly. They want a bloody proper British bloke, and so I give them that - when I'm on duty. But I tend to lapse back when I'm more myself."

"I'll take it as a compliment, then, that you've almost always been yourself around me," she teased.

They walked in comfortable silence for a few moments. They had just reached the fourth funnel when she asked, "So how's the view from up here?" She had been so engrossed in her distracting companion that she had entirely forgotten to think about how high up they were.

He smiled. "Come and see," he said.

She ignored the familiar twinge of unease; she was eager to show him how fearless and nonchalant she was about the whole matter. And besides, she told herself confidently, if I can crawl up that terrifying metal ladder without having an attack of nerves, I can do anything.

They walked over to the edge of the boat deck, squeezing their way through the empty lifeboats hanging on davits. She gazed out at the deep, endless green sea, sparkling with sunshine, and caught her breath at the ethereal beauty. It was so picture-perfect... and so empty. There was no other life, no other object, for as far as the eye could see. She felt suddenly small and lonely, floating in a giant palace on a desolate earth.

Then she looked down, and gasped. From here, the drop to the water was steep, dizzying... and deadly. And without the comfort of a railing to lean against, she felt unsteady, as if she might topple over. She gulped and tightened her grip on his arm. He must have noticed, too, for he moved closer, as if to shelter her.

The warmth of his body nearly made her forget her anxiety, and she leaned into it unconsciously. He looked down at her quickly, and must have noted the terror in her eyes, because he immediately stepped back from the edge, pulling her with him. Once away from that terrifying drop, her heart rate slowed once again. She was standing so close to him that she caught his heady smell of aftershave, tobacco, and the sea, and she inhaled deeply, the scent further calming her nerves.

Realizing that she still held his arm in a death grip, she laughed, trying to lighten the mood, and slowly loosened her hold on him. He seemed reluctant to let her go, though, and remained glued to her side. Taking a deep breath to distract herself from his nearness, she gestured with her hand and said, "Too bad all these little boats are in the way. I'm sure it really spoils the view for the swells."

It was meant to be a joke, but he answered it seriously. "Probably," he said. "But they'd be damn glad that if they needed them, they were there." She noticed that he spoke freely now that he had no fears of recrimination from her, and it made her smile to herself. He was becoming quite comfortable around her, and quickly. Then he added, "Not that there are enough of them, anyway."

"Really?" she asked. That seemed strange, that a ship this size couldn't spare room for a few more boats.

"There's enough to meet regulations, and then some, actually," he admitted. "But not for every soul on board."

"How many? Boats, that is?"

"Sixteen wooden ones, and four collapsible. Two of them are kept folded up and stowed on top of the officer's quarters, though, so they're practically useless in a real emergency. And so is most of the crew, for that matter." He rolled his eyes. "A majority of them wouldn't know which end of the oar to put in the water."

"And I suppose you would?" she teased.

"Of course," he said with a cocky grin. "I'm both a boatman and a sailor. There's a difference, you know, and rarely is one person also the other."

"Then I suppose you would be able to save me if some terrible disaster befalls the ship." At that, she pretended to swoon, leaning her body against his arm for a second for dramatic flair before righting herself again.

He laughed and played along, but once again his voice was solemn when he replied, "I would, Miss Donnelly. You can be sure of it."

The promise in his voice sent her heart racing all over again, and it was all she could do to reply with the first thought that came to her head. "So it's back to Miss Donnelly again? I thought we were on better terms than that, Mr. Lowe," she chided him gently.

"Well, if that is the case, then you must call me by my given name, so we can drop all the formalities," he said firmly.

"Yes, Mr. Lowe, that I will, if you were to tell it to me," she said.

"It's Harold. Harold Godfrey Lowe."

"Harold Godfrey - that's a right proper name for a Welsh laddie, isn't it?" she teased.

"No more so than Corrine is for an Irish lassie," he teased back.

She laughed. "True, that is. What do your friends call you, Harold, or Godfrey?"

He shrugged. "Well, if I had friends, I guess they'd call me Harold."

The awkward pause that followed prompted her to ask gently, "You mean you don't have any mates now?"

"Well, when you're always at sea, you go where you're put..." He shrugged again. "So you don't see familiar faces all that often, is what I'm saying." The matter-of-fact way he conveyed this told her he didn't want to discuss it further.

She found it odd that he didn't count any of Titanic's other officers as friends. Still, in an attempt to steer the subject back on course, she said, "So, Harold or Godfrey, then?"

"For you..." he paused and smiled rakishly at her. "Harry, I think."

She felt as if she were going to melt into a puddle on the deck. "Harry it is, then," she said, loving the sound of his name in her mouth.

She was enjoying herself so much that she had almost forgotten she was on borrowed time, in a forbidden place - until the sound of a man's voice, deep and furious, cleaved the day in two.

* * *

Given the port side of the ship, and their position near the fourth funnel, you might have guessed which lifeboat they were standing beside when they take in the view :)

Historical note: The real Harold Lowe was, according to Inger Sheil, most emphatically 'Harold' to everyone, although he did go by his middle name at some point as well, as did many other people during this time period. He objected to being called by the diminutive 'Harry'. FictionalLowe, too, prefers 'Harold', and even refers to himself that way, as you'll see eventually. Allowing Corrine the right to use that nickname, in a concession he doesn't give to anyone else, is a sign of his high regard for her.


	7. Chapter 6: Interference

A/N: Reviews are giving me LIFE! I love hearing from you! Thanks to everyone who's reviewing - and reading!

I apologize for the delay in posting this chapter. I promised to post one a week, but last weekend I finished writing a particularly disturbing but really compelling part of the story (which comes later), and to be honest, I had a crisis of conscience - it made me second guess the whole enterprise. But I'm going to keep going for now, and see how some of the later chapters of the story are received, before I decide whether or not I'll chuck some of the dodgy parts or keep 'em in.

* * *

"Mr. Lowe!"

Her belly filled with dread at the familiar booming voice. This time, Harry didn't even try to hide his flinch. They both turned, and she dropped her hand from his arm, knowing full well it was already too late.

Mr. Lightoller approached from the direction of the bow, his face a thundercloud. "You were to report to the bridge exactly-" he checked his watch "-a minute and a half ago. The watch has changed, and you are late."

Corrine had one quick glance at Harry's stricken expression before he took off sprinting down the boat deck.

Lightoller turned to walk back the same way, then paused. He slowly turned and looked her over, then stared closely at her face. "I remember you," he said slowly. "I saw you right before we sailed, in Southampton. You were with him-" he jerked a thumb over his back at the rapidly receding junior officer, "weren't you?"

Slowly she nodded. It was no use trying to deny it; his memory was obviously sharp, and she was in enough trouble already without adding a lie to it.

He came closer, his voice pitched low so that other passersby could not hear his words. "I don't know what you're playing at, miss, but that man has important duties and has absolutely no time for dalliances of any sort. Any distractions could threaten the well-being of the ship, and I will not tolerate it."

Stricken, she nodded again. He must have seen something in her guilt-wracked expression, for his face softened slightly. "What is your name, miss?" he asked, not unkindly.

"Corrine Donnelly," she replied in a voice barely above a whisper.

"Well, Miss Donnelly, I will have to escort you back belowdecks now. You know that steerage is not permitted to be up here, right?"

For a minute, she bristled at his assumption of her class, feeling the pain and humiliation of her earlier encounter all over again. But she realized that her lack of sophistication and money were written all over her... and he was likely well used to assessing the status of traveling passengers.

She held her head high. "Thank you, Mr. Lightoller, but I can see myself down."

His eyebrows rose slightly, as if in acknowledgement of her gentle and dignified rebuke as well as her use of his name. "Nonetheless, I must see to it. Besides, I have other duties to attend to that will take me in that direction anyway."

They began walking slowly, not back toward the crew stairwell, where she had originally come with Harry, but amidships. Lightoller looked over at her, opened his mouth, and then closed it again. It seemed as if he were struggling with something. Finally, he said, "Mr. Lowe is a rather... interesting fellow. I can understand why a young lass like you might be drawn to him. But you would do well to keep your distance. He's more than a little rough around the edges, and he can be impetuous and temperamental. And you are not the first female to find a certain... appeal... in his devil-may-care attitude. I may have said too much, but I think it would be a shame for you to be pining over someone you can never have."

She felt as if she had been struck. Every one of his blunt words cut deep into her heart. First he implied that she was endangering the entire ship by talking to Harry, and now he was telling her what a right tosser he was. A sob caught in her throat, and she wasn't quite sure why. Perhaps because everything had happened so fast, her emotions in the past twenty-four hours had become a confused swirl of hope, attraction, doubt, and second-guessing. And yes, if she were being honest, she had indeed allowed herself to ponder the possibility that maybe... But that was the most ridiculous thought on earth! Did she really expect a ship's officer to have time for her anyway? Worse, had she deluded herself into thinking that he might feel something for her? When he likely had his pick of ladies at every port he entered? Lightoller was surely right; she must have misread every sign, seeing only what she wanted to see. She wanted to hide her face in shame from this man who had seen the truth in her heart and so gently tried to set her straight.

They approached the same vestibule where she and Harry had had the encounter with the awful first-class couple. Lightoller opened the door and strode through, holding it for her. After passing through the vestibule, he opened another door which led to a staircase, a much larger and grander one than the aft stairwell where she had originally come on deck. An enormous wrought iron and glass dome stretched above them, through which the afternoon sunlight filtered, casting a glow about the oak-paneled interior. The beautiful crystal and gilt chandelier hanging from the dome highlighted the intricately carved woodwork, wrought iron and gilt balustrades, blue upholstered armchairs and sofas, and potted palms. Even in the midst of her misery, she was overwhelmed at the sight of such excessive opulence. Lightoller waved his hand, indicating for her to descend. "This is the first class grand staircase. You will find that it leads all the way to E deck. Once there, you can pass through a door on the port side which opens onto Park Lane, the long corridor that runs the length of the ship. From there you should be able to find the steerage quarters quite easily. If you do need assistance, please ask one of the stewards." He started to walk away, then turned back to her. "I hope you enjoy the rest of your trip on Titanic, Miss Donnelly. But I never want to see you on my boat deck again."

She watched him leave, her heart at her feet.

* * *

"You're looking up there again," Katie admonished.

"I'm not." Corrine snorted indignantly.

"I've caught you doing it twice just in the past five minutes. Don't try to deny it."

The two girls had just finished their breakfasts and were enjoying the morning sun on the aft well deck. It had quickly become one of their favorite places on the ship. The fresh air was invigorating, and there were always new and interesting people to socialize with. But today they preferred to keep to themselves.

Corrine had been reserved and withdrawn when she returned to the stateroom the previous evening, and had answered Katie's enthusiastic questions about her adventure with "Mister Scrummy" with one-word answers. Over breakfast, though, Corrine explained her reticence from the night before, telling Katie a little bit about the disastrous Lightoller encounter - but leaving out the part about his advice to her. Of course, Katie then pressed for details about her afternoon above, and was thrilled with her description of the boat deck - and her stroll with the handsome Fifth Officer. But when Corrine abruptly told her that she wouldn't be seeing him again, Katie was dismayed. "If a man like that ever looked my way, you'd be sure I would never let him go. Besides, what's wrong with a little shipboard romance?" She winked and elbowed Corrine, but Corrine just shook her head. She had resolved to put an end to her silly infatuation once and for all, and that meant never setting eyes on him again.

But here she was, sneaking glances up to the decks above like a lovesick fool. She had no idea what kind of watches junior officers kept, or if he was on duty or off. And besides, she had told herself that it was over, that she didn't care anyway. Being out here was a temptation that she didn't need right now.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of dark blue above her. Don't look, don't look... she pleaded to herself.

Harry stood at the aft end of the same deck she had seen him on yesterday. He spotted her immediately and sketched a smart salute, grinning widely.

Corrine grabbed Katie's elbow and marched her to the door. "I think we should head back in now," she said. "I've seen enough for one day." She kept her eyes resolutely forward as she walked, ignoring Katie's protests.

Once inside, Katie turned on her indignantly. "Goodness, Corr! Why did you snub the poor man like that?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Corrine said, and tried to brush past her.

But Katie wasn't having any of it. "You know exactly what I mean," she said, standing stubbornly in front of her and blocking her escape. "You go out there to see him - don't say no, I know what you're about - and when you do, you immediately put your nose up and walk away like some fancy lady with airs. You're playing with his feelings, and it's not right!"

Corrine sighed, frustrated. "I'm not trying to, I promise. I just... It'll never work, and I think it's best if we don't see each other again." And I can't explain why, and I hope you don't ask me, she prayed silently.

Luckily, Katie missed the opportunity to pry. "Well, then you better not go on that deck again," Katie retorted tartly, taking a different tack. "Because he seems to seek you out there - and I think you know it."

Corrine flushed. "You're wrong, you know," she said belligerently. "Someone like that would never even give me the time of day." The sinking of her heart as soon as she finished speaking told her the truth of her words. In what world did she, a regular working-class girl, think that she'd catch the eye of a fancy ship's officer? It was like the plot of a badly written romance novel. Things like that didn't happen to people like her, and even a second spent thinking otherwise was a ridiculous fantasy not worth her time.

Katie read all of this in the wounded expression on Corrine's face, and her anger at her melted like snow in spring. "You're wrong, Corr," she said gently, reaching out to put a hand on her arm. "I'll give it to you - normally, when it comes to people, you're spot on, but on this one, you're dead wrong, I can assure you. You should've seen his face when we were leaving! It's like you ripped his heart out and stomped all over it!"

Corrine tried to protest, but Katie held a hand up and hushed her. "No matter what you try to tell yourself, this isn't over. He's got it bad for you, love."

* * *

Later that afternoon, Corrine was reading in her bunk when she was startled by a knock at the door.

Katie had gone back to the dining room, hoping to have tea with the man she met there yesterday. "I've got my own shipboard romance to attend to, you know," she said with a sly grin. And Corrine had just escorted poor Kate to the infirmary; the girl's seasickness was not abating, and Corrine hoped that a visit with a ship's doctor would help put her right, so that she could enjoy the rest of the trip with them.

Left with nothing much to do, and needing to distract herself, she picked up Futility again. It was starting to get interesting, she had to admit. The main character, the sailor Rowland, had just rescued a young girl from their sinking ship in the North Atlantic. Oh, those poor people, she thought sympathetically; it must have been terribly frightening to traverse the Atlantic before the invention of wireless and unsinkable liners. She was grateful for the thick metal walls of her stateroom and the reassuring hum of Titanic's strong engines as she huddled in bed reading the suspenseful tale.

Engrossed as she was, the knock was an unwelcome intrusion. But she hopped down from her berth and dutifully opened the door. To her surprise, the third-class chief steward stood at polite attention on the other side.

"For you, miss." He held out a note written on white stationery, folded twice. Baffled, she opened it and scanned the elegant script quickly:

C-

I would like to talk to you about this morning. Can we meet? Please give Mr. Kieran a time and place.

H.

He waited, watching her as she absorbed the message. "I was told to wait for a reply," he gently prodded her.

She took a deep breath. "No message, sir."

"Very well, miss." He inclined his head, then turned and left.

She closed the door gently, reading the note over again slowly, then once more. Sighing, she crumpled it up, pulled out her trunk, and stuffed it deep inside so the girls wouldn't find it. Then she climbed back up to her bunk and threw herself on the mattress with a groan.

Why did he have to make it so difficult to get over him?

* * *

I apologize if I'm not giving a proper impression of Lightoller here. In real life, Lights was both charismatic and a practical joker, as well as being a highly capable officer, if somewhat opinionated. But in this story, we're only seeing things from Harry's perspective... and Lightoller's affable, collegial spirit doesn't extend to him; he doesn't much care for Harry's attitude and personality, and his concern for Corrine is both genuine and justified - as we may see later.


	8. Chapter 7: Confessions

Katie burst into their stateroom the next morning after returning from breakfast, her eyes shining with secrets. "Someone told me there's an officer wandering around in steerage, with no particular purpose that anyone can see. I think it's him!"

"You mean Corrine's officer?" Kate ventured from the bunk below her. She had been feeling better since her visit to the doctor yesterday, which is why Corrine had decided to lounge about in bed reading rather than taking her usual morning promenade. Not having to hear - and smell - near-constant retching was a refreshing change.

"It's highly doubtful that it's him," said Corrine peevishly. She turned a page in her book. She certainly wasn't going to go and investigate. It probably wasn't Harry - there were plenty of other officers on this giant ship. And it wasn't like he would be down here looking for her anyway; there was a never-ending list of responsibilities on a ship this large that would likely demand his attention. "And besides, he's not my officer," she reminded them both. The conversation with Lightoller still stung. The things he had said about the junior officer, and the implications he had made about his character, had made her question everything she thought she knew about him. And despite Katie's near-constant assertions to the contrary, she had convinced herself that she was just a shipboard flirtation to him, and nothing more.

Katie pouted. "Well, can I at least go find out if the bloke's good-looking? Then we'll know for sure if it's him."

Corrine laughed. "Katie, you think all the officers are attractive; you're hardly a fair judge."

Both Kate and Katie giggled in agreement. "Well, I guess it's to be you, then. Go on; just take a wee peek 'round the corner and see," prodded Katie. She looked pointedly at the book in her hand. "It's not like you're doing anything important anyway."

Corrine sighed heavily and laid her book on the bunk. Why she was agreeing to this, she didn't know. That cursed curiosity of hers again, she guessed. And... well, despite telling herself again and again that her imagination had just gotten the better of her, and that he had likely already moved on to another girl by now, she wasn't always able to convince herself of it entirely. Hope is a hard thing to crush, she thought wryly.

Throwing her shoulders back, she walked to the door. "Well, ladies," she said, putting on her most sophisticated voice, "Try not to wait up for me. I'm off to see my knight in shining armor." She rolled her eyes and fluttered her lashes dramatically, and then left the room to the titters of her friends.

Once in the hall, she crept slowly to the common rooms. She really didn't want to be seen by whomever it was that had ventured to their corner of the ship. The thought of running into Lightoller in particular filled her with dread. That he had so easily sussed out her schoolgirl attraction to Harry still filled her with shame. She was certain that if she never saw Mr. Lightoller again, it would be too soon.

She edged up the staircase, peeked in the window of the door to the aft general room, and caught her breath. Her eyes confirmed what her heart had already known. Harold Lowe stood in in the center of the room, silhouetted in the mid-morning sunlight streaming through the teak windows. He was facing away from her, staring out onto the well deck beyond.

She sighed again. In for a penny, in for a pound, as her mother would say.

She swung open the door and walked into the room. "Good morning, Mr. Lowe," she said stiffly.

He whirled to face her. "I- I just came down here to... I mean, I had to... and I thought..." he stammered. He seemed to collect himself, and said, "Can we talk? In private? On the deck?"

"Hadn't you better avoid the decks altogether, Mr. Lowe?" she asked. "Mr. Lightoller has an uncanny ability to find you when you're supposed to be elsewhere."

"Fair point, Miss Donnelly," he acknowledged with a ghost of a smile. So he had noted the return to formality, then. He walked toward the door. "Will you join me in the third class smoking room? It should be almost empty right now."

She started to follow, then stopped, confused. "You are aware that ladies aren't allowed in there?"

"Miss Donnelly," he said, quite seriously, "one of the many things I admire about you is your rather unladylike demeanor."

And just like that, the ice that had encased her heart following the conversation with Lightoller melted completely. As she found herself doing so often around this man, she laughed out loud. "Well played," she teased, and followed him into the lounge.

At this time of day there were very few men lurking about. Most were nursing stiff drinks to stave off the effects of the hangovers they suffered after last night's hooley. At the sight of the officer, they made hasty excuses and retreated from the room.

Harry sat in a wooden chair as far as possible from the on-duty steward, who threw them a reproving look but didn't dare challenge a ship's officer. She sat facing him, a small table between them. He had his ankle crossed over his knee, and his foot jiggled nervously.

Finally, he spoke. "I think there's been some misunderstanding," he said without preamble.

Her heart sank. Maybe her instincts were wrong after all... maybe Lightoller was telling the truth...

He got straight to the point. "I don't know what Mr. Lightoller told you. But I'm certain that he didn't paint the most flattering picture of me. And I want to set the record straight."

She blinked in surprise. He had always been direct, but his candor on this subject was unexpected. He held her gaze steadily.

"How do you know anybody told me anything about you?" she shot back.

He shrugged. "Just a hunch. And you all but confirmed it yesterday, and back there, too." He gestured toward the general room. "You can't hide your feelings very well, can you?"

She snorted. Listen to the pot calling the kettle black, she almost retorted, but held her tongue. Her curiosity held sway; she was dying to hear what he had to say.

"The truth of it is, as I was trying to tell you before, no one here on this ship knows me at all. I am a stranger to all of them. And any... impression that they have of me is undoubtedly uninformed."

She raised her brow. "Really? So, then, you're _not_ temperamental and impulsive?"

He barked a laugh. "Well, I guess I am at that. He has me there."

Well, if there was ever a time to ask her next question, it was now. Her heart thundered in her ears as she screwed up her courage and said, "And you mean you don't have a girl in every port?"

His laugh this time was both incredulous and genuine. "Miss Donnelly, I don't even have a best girl, let alone a fleet of them."

He blushed deeply, as if realizing belatedly the weight of his confession. Corrine felt her face turn red as well, and she had to look away for a few moments to settle her racing heart. So he was unattached? The admission made her spirits soar, and she fought vainly against the hope rising once again in her chest.

It took a moment for the two of them to regain their composure, during which time they looked everywhere but at each other. Finally, though, he blurted, "How about you, Miss Donnelly - are you sweet on some chap at home?" The casual way he asked was offset by the return of his blush and the continued avoidance of her eyes.

Now it was her turn to laugh. "Well, that would be cruel, wouldn't it, to have left him high and dry and all? But to answer your question, though... no. There never was anyone in particular that caught my eye, and besides, I was always too busy either taking care of my da or working."

"I'm glad to hear it," he said, looking steadily into her eyes. And this time, he didn't blush.

She felt the air between them change. It was as if the confessions - and the questions that prompted them - had laid bare their true intentions at last. They had crossed some invisible threshold, and she knew there would be no more denying their mutual feelings for one another - to themselves, or to each other. She was both thrilled and frightened by the realization.

Dear God, this man was going to be the death of her, she was sure of it.

She took a deep breath to clear her head. She still needed to make things right between them. "I'm sorry, for making assumptions, and for believing certain rumors. You had promised to be honest with me, and I should have taken you at your word. I'm sorry for not having more faith in you," she finished simply.

He smiled back at her, his expression open and genuine. "There are no hard feelings, Miss Donnelly, I assure you."

"Please," she whispered, "call me Corrine."

* * *

After that, the conversation between them flowed easily and naturally. She told him all about her plans once she reached America: to work as a seamstress or a waitress or a store clerk - anywhere she could find gainful employment. She even told him her dream of one day going to secondary school, maybe becoming a nurse or a teacher, provided she could find the time and money for schooling. She had never spoken this thought aloud to anyone, and was surprised to find herself confessing to him... but she found it so easy to tell him anything and everything at all that she just kept babbling on and on. Only once did he look troubled, and that was when she announced that once she landed in America, she never planned to return. But the cloud was fleeting, and before long he was laughing along with her descriptions of how she had successfully evaded some of the more boorish customers she had served at her uncle's ironmongery.

But she soon tired of hearing herself talk; she was far more interested in learning more about the man sitting across from her.

"Enough about me. Now, it's your turn, then, Harry. I want to know everything - starting with how you ended up on this ship in the first place," she said, leaning forward eagerly.

"Honestly, I could no more tell you that than fly," he said, laughing. "I have not the faintest idea why the White Star Line chose me to serve on their flagship."

"Well you must have done something impressive for them to notice you," she said encouragingly.

He shrugged his shoulders and made a dismissive sound. "Nothing worth noting, really. Just my duty. I served on two White Star ships prior to this, on the Australia run. They were only simple cargo and small passenger vessels, nothing special. The White Star Line plucked me from obscurity, no doubt about it. Like I said, I am not like the other officers, Corrine, in more than one way."

"How so?" she asked, intrigued.

He settled back into the seat comfortably, as if for a good yarn. "Well, I told you that I had never met any of them before, but all of the other officers have served together on other vessels. Most of them have been on the Oceanic together, but some - like the Captain, the Chief, the First, and the Chief Purser - came from the Olympic. They're a coterie of men hand-picked for their experience with these giant liners - and the idle rich. And then there's me," he said lightly, "a bloke that's never once crossed the Western Ocean, er Atlantic, that is. Clearly, I am the odd man out."

His mouth quirked up in a half-grin, as if remembering. "And, there's the fact that I ran away from home when I was fourteen. I always knew a life at sea was for me, but my father... well, he wanted me to be a businessman." He pulled a terrible face, and she giggled. "I told him in no uncertain terms that it would never happen, and when he insisted, I saw only one choice. So I joined up with the first ship I could find that would take a green boy like me."

"And you ended up peeling potatoes," she interjected, recalling their earlier conversation.

"Exactly," he laughed. "It's the only job I could find - but it paid, unlike a Liverpool apprenticeship in a shipping office, and so I stayed. I went from Welsh schooners to sailing ships to steamers. I've been around Cape Horn, was in service on the West African Coast, and to Australia a few times, as I mentioned before. And I earned all my certificates, up to my master's. To make a long story short, I've come up the hawse pipe."

"What does that mean?" she inquired. She was rapt, hanging on his every word.

He smiled indulgently. "It means I rose through the ranks from the lowest ship's boy to deck officer. Took me almost fifteen years, which is longer than most, though. Most of these chaps, they did proper apprenticeships, which gives them an advantage when it comes to passing certifications and obtaining the most coveted berths. I did things the hard way, I suppose... but I learned to take care of myself, to depend on no one." Once again, a note of pride entered his voice, this time tinged with a bit of defiance. She wondered at that; it seemed like he still felt he had something to prove, but to whom? His father? Well, she thought wryly, if anyone could understand that feeling, it was her.

Suddenly, something he said earlier resonated in her head. She did a quick mental calculation. "How old are you, anyway, Harry?"

"Twenty nine," he replied quickly.

"Twenty nine!" she repeated, astonished. "But you look so... young!" she burst out.

He laughed. "I'll take that as a compliment, Corrine," he said, winking playfully. She blushed. "And how about you?"

She looked down at her hands, suddenly chagrined. "I just turned twenty two last month," she said softly. Saying it aloud, she felt childish and insignificant in front of this man, who had voyaged the world and experienced so much in his life already.

He must have sensed her insecurity, because he said gently, "You seem much older than that, you know."

She looked up, surprised that he could read her so well, and grateful for the compliment. They locked eyes again, and she couldn't tear herself away from that intense gaze. She felt like she was drowning...

A knock on the door startled her back to reality. She looked over and saw a few men standing outside, waiting impatiently for them to leave.

She knew they could only take over the smoking room for so long, and their time was clearly up, as far as that lot was concerned. But she didn't want this moment to end - and it seemed that Harry was reluctant to let her go, too.

"I suppose we should leave," she said, the words dragging from her unwillingly.

"Perhaps so," he said. But he didn't even spare a glance for the men at the door; he had eyes only for her.

"Will I... will I see you again soon?" she asked, suddenly shy again.

He shrugged apologetically. "My schedule is rubbish, Corrine," he admitted. "But I'll try my best. Maybe I'll be able to spare a few moments after my later watch." He grinned insolently. "But you always know where to find me, don't you? Perhaps I'll see you up on the boat deck again. You remember where the secret passage is, right?"

She laughed as they stood up to leave. "If I go up there again, Mr. Lightoller will throw me overboard for sure," she said. "But..." she grew serious, "But I'll be watching for you, Harry Lowe. You can bet on that." She was taken aback by her own boldness, but it was the truth, and he may as well know it.

They had been moving toward the door, but he stopped to gaze down at her. "Then I won't let you down," he said softly, a smile tugging the corners of his mouth. He held the door for her, and as they paused in the alcove of the third-class staircase, he took her hand, raising it to his lips - but stopping just short of touching her hand, as was proper. And yet... his eyes gleamed with mischief, and a touch of naughtiness. "Goodbye, Corrine - for now." With a wink, he walked out the door to the well deck beyond.

She watched him stride off, hands in his pockets, whistling, and had to lean against the wall to still her shaking knees. She sighed happily, marveling at how the world seemed so much more full of possibility than it had an hour ago.

* * *

Sometimes there's a song I listen to over and over when I write a chapter, because it inspires me, or because I think it's particularly fitting for the content. In this case, it was Shallow - Lady Gaga and Bradley Cooper.


	9. Chapter 8: Hooley

Fiction.2019 and Beatrice3, thank you so much for the positive reviews! I'm so flattered, and I'm glad you are enjoying the story!

In this chapter, you'll get to hear Harry's perspective for the first time. It's slightly less... pure... than Corrine's. Ha.

Also, for anyone keeping track, it's now the evening of April 13th. The Titanic stopped in Queenstown on the 11th, and nothing much happened on the 12th because of Lightoller's meddling the day before.

* * *

Corrine examined herself critically in the small mirror that hung above the sink in their stateroom, and decided she liked what she saw.

She had waited nearly an hour and a half in the queue for a bath, but it had been worth it. Her hair had been freshly washed, and now dry, it fell in shining waves down her back. She had put on the pretty cornflower-blue dress she had made specifically for the trip, and it flattered her voluptuous figure. She pinched her cheeks, grinned, and spun around. "What do you think, ladies?" she asked the girls, who were sitting on Katie's bed.

Kate, who had been combing through Katie's hair, turned and nodded approvingly. "Well done, Corrine; you clean up nicely."

Katie was more effusive. "You're a feek, love. I've never seen you look so fine."

"Thanks," she said as she sat next to Kate and started plaiting her hair. "We're all going to look mighty fine tonight, aren't we?"

"Well, we can't be going to the biggest party on the biggest ship in the world without our best, can we?" Katie preened in the mirror, admiring her own reflection. Her dark red hair was now twisted in an elaborate coil, just like the millionaires' wives she idolized. "Kate, you are going to make a fierce ladies' maid."

As the girls put the finishing touches on their appearance, Corrine began bouncing impatiently on the bed. "Are we quite ready yet? We don't want to be late," she urged.

Kate turned to her, suspicious. "And why is that? Is there some special fella you're hoping to see tonight?"

Corrine blushed. "No... that is, I mean, not at the hooley, but if I happen to be walking to the general room and, well, a certain officer happens to be on the deck, then..." She left the sentence as unfinished as the night.

"Ah, so now you want to see him!" said Kate. She sighed. "It's hard to keep track, Corrine, really it is. Do make up your mind, please!"

"I have," Corrine said firmly. "And I won't deny it - I do want to see him, as much as I can."

"You keep looking like that, you're going to see all of him, very soon," Katie elbowed her.

All three girls burst out laughing as Corrine reddened at the bawdy joke.

"Come, then," Katie said, standing. "I want to see my knight in shining armor tonight, too."

* * *

Before they entered the general room, Corrine took a detour to the well deck. The air was chilly, but she hadn't wanted to bring her coat. Glancing up at the decks above, as per her usual habit, Corrine noted that Harry wasn't there. She sighed to herself, swallowing her disappointment. She had really hoped he would be loitering about; she wanted to see the look on his face when he saw her dressed in her finest. She thought shyly that he might be pleased... maybe even ask her to take another stroll... and maybe, just maybe, he might kiss her...? The thought made her turn red, and she was glad the other girls couldn't see her face.

Arriving at the general room at last, they stepped through the door and into another world.

It was like they weren't even on a giant ship anymore. Bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling lit the bright white room in harsh tones, while shadows hugged the corners, where groups of men sat drinking and playing cards. A thick haze of smoke hung over everything, softening the bright light and giving the air a dreamlike quality.

But the festive atmosphere shattered any illusions of a dream. The room was packed with people of all nationalities, men women and children alike. They were all steerage passengers, and they had one thing in common: their infectious joy. Everywhere she looked, she saw laughing, cheerful people, celebrating life.

And the music! The room rang with the sounds of the fiddle, uilleann pipes, whistles, the bodhran. Dancers of all ages and skills wove between the musicians and small knots of bystanders. Occasional whoops and clapping accompanied the vibrant music.

"Oh!" Corrine clapped her hands, delighted. "It's just like home!"

For a moment, she was struck with a pang of homesickness. Memories of the weddings and parties she had attended with her friends over the years came flooding back to her. Oh, how she had loved the simple joys of a small-town life, where good folks worked hard and played harder. She had missed out on all of it in the last two years, after she had moved to Southampton, and now she realized how much it was a part of her. You can take the Irish lass out of Ireland, she thought, but Ireland will never leave her heart. She wondered if America would eventually sing in her blood the same way.

Corrine felt her body unconsciously begin to move to the music. She'd been dancing since before she could walk, swaying to the sound of her father's own uilleann pipes as a wee child. And over the years, she'd become quite good, learning the steps to even the most complicated dances with ease. Her father always said that music was the rhythm of his heart, and although her and her da differed on many things, she had to admit that they did have this one trait in common. With a whoop of laughter, she twisted her hair up into a bun and threw herself into the dancing.

She lost herself in the rhythm and the flow of her body for several songs, joining with knots of strangers for the group dances and switching between partners for the paired ones. She was welcomed warmly by people she had never met before; it seemed that everyone was infected with the same merry spirit of camaraderie. After a time, she eventually tore away from the dancing crowd and paused to rest, breathless. Spotting her friends across the room, she made a beeline toward them.

To her surprise, she found Katie hanging on the arm of a big strapping lad with blonde hair. She gave the man a sidelong glance and cocked her eyebrow at Katie, waiting for an introduction.

Katie leaned close to her ear, so she could be heard. "This is Thomas!" she shouted. "Remember, the lad I told you I met in the dining hall on our first day?" She gazed up at him adoringly.

Thomas glanced at Corrine then, and she noted with distaste how his eyes roved her body, looking her up and down. She decided that she didn't like this man. Poor Katie, she thought sympathetically, always picking the wrong blokes.

He pulled a flask out of his pocket, unstoppering it and taking a swig. He offered it around to the girls. Kate passed, but Katie indulged, a quick sip that left her coughing and sputtering.

Thomas hadn't missed the coolness in Corrine's expression, and now he shook the flask at her. "I bet this princess won't imbibe," he said mockingly, his smile not meeting his eyes.

Defiantly, Corrine held out her hand. "Challenge accepted," she said nonchalantly.

She had tasted whiskey before; her da had left his half-finished cups lying around all the time, and once when she was fourteen she stuck her tongue in one, just to see what all the fuss was about. She thought it foul, and had no idea how men drank this concoction with such frequency. But she wasn't going to let on that she hated it. She had to win the battle of wills with this dodgy git, to let him know that she was more than able to go toe-to-toe with him if he hurt her friend. She kept her face carefully neutral and her eyes locked on his as she tossed it back, the liquid burning a fiery trail down her throat and into her belly.

He nodded, impressed. "Good lass," he rumbled. "Come see me when you're ready for another." He grinned lewdly at her.

Whatever he could dish out, she could take. She grabbed the flask from him again and downed another mouthful before he could react.

The crowd around her roared with approval, and one man slapped her on the back, almost making her choke. She held it in, though, and a dangerous glint arose in her eyes. Grabbing Kate's and Katie's hands and pulling them toward the dancers, she said, "Now let's show these fellas how we move in Cork."

* * *

She slid through the door and stepped onto the aft well deck. The slight breeze stirred the tendrils of hair that had escaped her sloppily-assembled bun, but she didn't seem to mind. She took a quick glance up to A deck - a fact that was not lost on the man lurking near the door, who smiled knowingly.

Under cover of dusk and temporarily unseen, Harold allowed his eyes to roam over her greedily. Damn. That dress hugged her in all the right ways. Oh, he wanted to put his hands all over that curvy little body... preferably with that pretty dress off...

With an effort, he calmed his lewd thoughts. Easy, old man - don't cock it up now, he warned himself. You'll scare her off, and-

Suddenly, she threw her head back and took a big gulp of the frosty air. Laughing aloud, she began to twirl, and then do a little jig, all by herself on the deck.

He grinned. This girl was an indomitable force of nature, no doubt about it, and one that he couldn't resist. He was going to enjoy surprising her.

"You know, that's a beautiful neck. It would be a shame to break it by tripping on some line and falling on your arse."

Her face lit up at the sound of his voice. Harold smirked as he emerged from the shadows near the door. "Oi! Harry!" she squealed in delight. She ran to him, breathless with excitement. "How long have you been here? Why didn't you come in? I've been-"

Concerned, he looked around. She was being awfully loud, and although he didn't spot anyone in the near vicinity, he was worried that they might be seen - and heard - from the decks above. He grabbed her arm and pulled her into the shadows of a crane with him.

"Hush, Corrine," he said urgently. "I've just got off watch, but I'm not supposed to be anywhere near here. If the captain found out-" Before he could finish, Corrine leaned in and put a finger to his lips.

"I won't be telling him anything, Mr. Lowe," she promised, a naughty grin on her face, "If... you come with me."

Her nearness to him, and her saucy words, sent his blood racing. He stilled, and his eyes roved her face, sussing her intentions.

But for once, she was oblivious to the crackling electricity between them. She was nearly bouncing on the balls of her feet with anticipation.

"We're having a hooley, see, and-"

"A what?" he interrupted, brow furrowed.

"A hooley," she enunciated slowly and carefully, as if he were daft. Then she giggled. "It's a party, silly."

Sudden suspicion bloomed in his mind. "Have you had anything to drink, Corrine?"

She pursed her lips, as if pretending to think. "I may have had a wee nip." She thought for a few seconds. "Well, maybe a few nips," she admitted. She dissolved into another fit of giggles that cut off abruptly as she looked earnestly into his eyes. "I could get you some too, you know."

He shook his head, suddenly serious. "I don't drink, Corrine."

"But you're off-duty, right?" she pouted, eyes glinting with mischief.

"I mean I don't drink, ever," he said firmly.

"Never?" she asked incredulously.

"Never," he asserted. "I'm a total abstainer."

"Oh." Suddenly her boundless enthusiasm waned, and she sputtered to a stop, staring at the tops of her boots. Her face turned red. "You must think I'm a ruddy fool, then."

He put his fingers under her chin and tilted her face to his. "I don't care if you drink, Corrine. I'm just telling you that I won't."

He maintained the gentle pressure so that she was forced to look in his eyes. In them, as in his heart, there was no judgment, only a calm, steady assurance.

She exhaled in relief and gave him a radiant smile. He caressed her jawbone once with his thumb, and then forced himself to drop his hand. He worried that if he didn't put some distance between them, he wouldn't be able to resist the offer in those eyes, the temptation of those lips...

Her words brought him back to earth. "Good, that's settled, then. You're coming with me."

So she was back on that again, eh? He blew out an amused, exasperated breath. Her brash persistence was rather charming, but he couldn't afford to entertain the idea. "Corrine..." he implored, ready to launch a counter-argument against this insanity.

"I'm sorry, Harry, but I won't take no for an answer." She said it lightly, but he saw the determination written in the set of her mouth. "You deserve to have some fun too once in awhile, you know. And don't worry - I'll keep your identity a secret." She looked him over from head to toe. "But in order to fit in, you're going to have to lose that." She wagged a finger at his uniform.

Amusement rose in his chest. There was no fighting her on this, he could tell. May as well just go along with it, then. He grinned. This hooley, whatever it is, might even be... fun - provided he wasn't recognized. Before he could open his mouth to agree, she rose up on her tiptoes and swiped the cap from his head in one swift motion.

She held the cap to her chest and studied him, head cocked to one side. He self-consciously patted down his dark brown hair, which had a slight wave to it much like hers. Although it tended to unruliness, he hated the oils and pomades that slicked back so many of the gents' hair - and now he was grateful that he had shunned them, as she seemed to be quite taken with his hatless appearance. Tentatively, she reached up with one hand, and he held his breath as she stepped closer, stroking his soft curls with her fingertips. He closed his eyes and leaned into her hand, savoring the touch. Then his eyes snapped open.

"We're never going anywhere if we keep this up," he teased, his voice not quite steady.

She gestured to the coat. "That's next, then," she said.

Now he laughed. "How much are you going to have me remove before you're satisfied?" A moment later, he wished he hadn't said anything, because her gaze suddenly turned hungry. The tension between them rose like a tide, and he had to fight not to take her in his arms and kiss her senseless, until she was moaning his name... Stop. Not the time, not the place, he told himself. He would have to wait until the whiskey wore off a bit, see if she was just as amorous then. But oh, if she looked at him like that again when she was sober, he would set her body on fire with his mouth...

He pushed his pesky libido back down, although it was becoming harder and harder - pun intended, of course. Unaware of his internal struggle, she reached out to unbutton his coat, but he swatted her hand away playfully, needing to create a little physical space between them. He made quick work of the buttons on both the greatcoat and the uniform coat underneath. When he was done, just a starched white shirt and waistcoat remained. At her teasingly impatient gesture, he sighed, resigned, and removed the waistcoat too.

She eyed him critically. "Just the tie now, and we're done, I think."

Before he could protest, she had stepped into the space between them and reached her hands up to his collar.

Oh, this was too much. Their bodies were inches apart; he could feel the warmth radiating from her. Her boldness tonight both shocked and delighted him, resulting, despite his best efforts, in a rather impressive - and prominent - arousal. He had to take a half-step back to make sure she didn't notice.

Her slender fingers began fumbling with his tie. With maddening slowness, she loosened the knot and lifted the silken material to remove it. As he obligingly lowered his head, their foreheads touched, and he found himself drowning in her mesmerizing gaze.

Her lovely sea-green eyes sparkled with mischief and glee. Her cheeks were pink from the cold and the whiskey she had consumed earlier. Her full lips rose into a sensuous pout as she teased him, toying with the scrap of cloth around his neck.

She had never looked more beautiful - or more desirable.

Her gaze grew heavy, inviting, seductive. Slowly, she slid her hands down from behind his neck to his shoulders, and then to his collar. With a quick flick, her fingers undid the top button, and the collar popped open. He hissed a gasp between his teeth as she traced the bit of skin exposed there with the tip of a finger.

They stood there like that for what seemed like forever, her hands on his chest, touching his bare skin wonderingly, faces a hair's breadth apart, while the earth spun around them and time stood still. Finally, he gently looped his fingers around her wrists and lowered them to her side, breaking the spell.

Harold didn't quite trust himself to speak; too much had passed between them just then. He finished removing the tie from his neck and waited, studying her, his breathing irregular.

Her expression was dazed, as if waking from a dream. Slowly, she came back to herself, shivering, likely as much from the loss of his touch as from the cold.

He took a deep breath, struggling to regain control of the situation for both their sakes. "You're going to catch your death out here if we don't go inside soon," he said softly. He reached out and brushed her cheek with the back of his hand, then busied himself gathering his discarded clothing and pushing them in a heap underneath the crane.

As he straightened back up, he saw that she was grinning, her earlier humor restored. She looked him up and down, wagging her eyebrows as if she liked what she saw. "Now you look like one of us," she pronounced approvingly.

"Corrine," he laughed, "I am one of you."

She took his hand in hers, her eyes issuing a challenge. "Let's see if you are, then, Mr. Lowe."

She pulled him toward the door.

* * *

Song inspiration: Raising Hell - Kesha

Would love feedback on this chapter - thanks in advance :)


	10. Chapter 9: The Craic

Wow, thank you, my loyal readers, for the reviews! I love you all, and it really does mean the world to me to hear from you :)

MinoanPrincess: Regarding the Kate/Katie explanation, it's like you read my mind! Almost as soon as I created Corrine, I knew she was going to have two friends, and the first thing I thought of was that line from ANTR ("On the Titanic all Irish girls seemed to be named Katherine"). So Katie and Kate emerged from my imagination with their personalities - and unfortunately their names - already fully-formed. I knew it would be confusing, and I did try to call them something else in the early chapters, but I couldn't get my own brain to accept it, and finally I stopped trying. After awhile, I began to appreciate the irony of having two characters who couldn't be more different sharing the same name.

Here's a short primer for the girls to help tell them apart:

Katie: brash, confident, charismatic, and boy crazy - in the early chapters, she's the one with Corrine because Kate is ill.

Kate: sweet, gentle, shy, often sickly - drops the 'girlish' nickname Katie in an adorably bougie attempt to sound more mature.

As for Thomas... I can't give anything away about him one way or another ;)

Regarding Harry's interaction with the other officers... there will be a few short scenes with them later, and there's definitely mentions of them here and there. But I wanted to maintain some historical continuity in this area, and RealLowe made it clear that he felt like an 'outsider' among the deck crew, who already knew each other prior to Titanic. The one officer he will continue to cross paths with in this story is Lightoller. That's because other than the sinking of the ship itself (spoiler!), Lights is THE major catalyst; much of what happens to H/C, good and bad, is due to Lights' blatant or inadvertent meddling. You'll see what I mean, but he's ALL OVER the plot, influencing it in ways that might not be immediately obvious but will have a lasting impact. And I love exploring the dynamic between the two men; I think their personalities are both fascinating (Lights is my second fave officer), and there isn't a lot known about their scant interactions in real life, so my overactive imagination has filled in a lot. You'll get to see their complicated relationship fleshed out in later sections.

Fiction.2019: Thank you! As far as kissing goes, Harry really wanted to, and probably would've - if Corrine hadn't had that whiskey. He makes it clear that he doesn't want to take advantage of her while she's in an altered state. So he's being a gentleman - or at least, he's desperately trying to play the part ;)

Okay, picking up where we left off... it's a short chapter this week, but the next one makes up for it!

* * *

If anything, the party had become even more lively in her absence.

Someone had pushed the tables together in the middle of the floor, so that they formed an impromptu stage. A group of men was up there now, performing a light jig to the stomping and rhythmic clapping of the audience. Whiskey and beer flowed freely, and the room was filled with the shouts of men gaming and arm wrestling, and the squeal of girls as they whirled around in the space between.

"Come on!" Corrine shouted. "I'll show you 'round!" Show him off was more like it, she smirked to herself. Harry was, in her humble opinion, the best-looking man in the room, and she was quite smug about being his companion for the night. With a self-satisfied smile, Corrine led him over to meet her friends, still holding tightly to his hand.

Katie's eyes grew huge as she approached, and Corrine knew she had figured out who Corrine had in tow. She had to make sure Katie kept quiet, or the entire room would soon know that a ship's officer was among them. She couldn't predict how that would be received, and she didn't want to take a chance, so she made a quick slashing motion with her hand before Katie could open her mouth.

"Everyone, I'd like you to meet my friend-"

"Godfrey," he finished, his voice smooth and very, very English. Corrine hid a smile.

Katie gave him a sly wink. "Nice to make your acquaintance, sir," she said, giving him an exaggerated curtsey. Corrine knew that their ruse hadn't fooled her at all.

Kate, on the other hand, looked thoroughly confused. "But I thought you said you were interested in-"

"Never mind about him," Corrine interrupted, waving her hand dismissively. "That one's a right stiff, he is."

Beside her, Harry made a strangled noise, and she had to pretend to cough to cover her laughter. Oh, she was enjoying this. But poor Kate! She would have to straighten her out eventually, just not in front of everyone else.

Thomas peered at Harry suspiciously. "Don't think I've seen you 'round," he said slowly, slurring the words slightly.

Glancing at Harry out of the corner of his eye, Corrine saw that he already had the tall man's measure. "I've been stuck in my room mostly. Bit of the seasickness," he said blandly.

"Then how did the two of you meet?" persisted Kate, looking from Corrine to Harry and back again.

Katie elbowed her. "Let's not be giving them the third degree, love, and just let it go." She shot a meaningful glance at Kate, who fortunately asked no more questions.

Corrine realized that she needed to get Harry away before one of them put their foot in it. "Come, let's dance!" she shouted, tugging on him.

He shook his head, laughing. "I don't dance, Corrine."

"It seems there are a lot of things you don't do, Godfrey," she said, emphasizing the name, "but this is one you'll definitely be doing tonight."

"But I never learned," he protested. He lowered his voice so the others couldn't hear. "I've been on a ship for half my life, remember?"

"Then I will teach you," she said sweetly, silencing all objections to the matter. Taking both of his hands in hers, she pulled him away from her friends. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Katie give her a thumbs-up sign.

They stood a little apart from the dancers. Corrine repinned her hair, twisting up the sides into a knot and letting the rest hang freely, sweeping her lower back. Harry uncuffed and rolled the sleeves of his shirt, revealing bronzed muscled forearms. She tried not to stare, but it was becoming very difficult to keep her eyes off of him. To distract herself, she tapped her foot impatiently until the musicians switched to a reel.

"Right, now this is one that's simple and easy to learn," she said, turning to him. "Watch me." She executed a series of rapid steps, her slim legs whirling under the skirt.

He groaned. "I'm sorry, Corrine, but you've already lost me," he said, perplexed.

Corrine laughed. "I'll slow it down for you, all right?" She did it again in half time, lifting her skirts slightly so that he could see the movement of her feet. She did it twice more, calling out the movements as she did. He nodded uncertainly when she finished.

"Right, now try with me," she instructed. Standing side-by-side, they waited for the timing of the music to be right, then launched into the steps. He was doing well until they came to the shuffle. Then he lost the rhythm, stumbled, and stopped, looking dismayed.

"I told you, I can't," he said, defeated.

"You can, Harry," she gently assured him. "You're thinking too hard. Feel the music," she said. "In here." She put her hand to his chest, over his heart. He closed his eyes, nodding, his lips parted slightly as he absorbed the beat, the rhythm.

Oh my, she thought, staring at him. Is that what he would look like if he were kissing me? Refocusing on the present with an effort, she reluctantly removed her hand. "Ready...?" she called, waiting for the downbeat. "Now! Heel toe, heel toe, heel toe... that's it, walk forward," she encouraged. "And back, toe heel, toe heel... good! Now, heel tap out, then in... keep going... right, now we're going to shuffle... shuffle and circle... that's it! You've got it, Harr- I mean, Godfrey!" She laughed joyously, throwing her arms around his neck. Tentatively, he wrapped his own arms around her waist, holding her against him for a split second before they broke apart, suddenly bashful.

Then the music changed, and her eyes lit up again. "Oi! They're playing a polka now! This one we can do as a couple!" A slow smile spread on her lips, and she beckoned him forward.

He raised his brows and chuckled. "I don't know this dance either, Corrine," he reminded her.

"That's all right!" she said, raising her voice as the music and the noise from the crowd swelled around her. "Just follow me!"

He shrugged good-naturedly and stepped into the space between them, waiting for instructions. "First, you put your hand here," she said, taking his arm and wrapping it around her waist. She laughed as he held her out from his body like a bag of dirty laundry. "No - tighter and closer," she insisted playfully, stepping nearer to him. "We should be almost touching." Dear God, please give me the strength to keep me from throwing myself in his arms right now, she prayed, as the heat from his body warmed her in new and unfamiliar ways. "Now, take your other hand and hold mine - see?" He nodded, eyes glued to her face, studying her closely.

Oh, he had to stop looking at her like that, with that strange intensity, or she was going to melt completely. Before they went too far astray, she brought them back to the task at hand, cheerfully announcing, "Right then - off we go!" and pulling him into the sweaty, whirling crowd.

They spun around and around, Corrine throwing her head back and laughing as he tried his best to keep up with her. He stepped on her feet a few times and grinned self-consciously, automatically glancing at the floor to check his footing.

"Don't look down at your feet," she teased as they continued to circle the room. She touched a finger to his chin, lifting it so that his eyes met hers. "Look right here." She slowly drew the finger to her eyes.

He waggled his eyebrows at her and yanked her body closer in response, smirking when she gasped delightedly. But he did as she requested, feeling the beat rather than counting steps, and with her shouting encouragement in his ear, he eventually loosened up a bit. He gave her a goofy, lopsided grin once he realized he was keeping decent time and no longer tromping all over her, and relaxed into the movement. Soon, he was leading instead of following, and she gave a yelp of approval when she felt the confidence in his steps.

Suddenly, he wrapped both hands around her waist and lifted her feet off the ground, twirling her in a circle. She swung around and around in his arms, her tinkling laugh trailing behind her, throwing her arms in the air as if she were flying. Dizzy, ecstatic, she soared above the crowd, watching the faces below her sweep by in a blur. Then, she felt the muscles in his shoulders tense, and before she knew what was happening he was lifting her so that she stood on top of the tables. She swayed on her feet, realizing that she was suddenly very visible to everyone in the room. She regained her balance and glanced around her, then down at him. He nodded encouragingly.

Her sudden appearance on the tables had caught the attention of the fiddler across the room, who looked up at her, eyes lit with a dare: Are you up to it, then?

Hands on hips, she surveyed the room, her stage, and gave him a cocky nod: I'll manage.

He grinned widely, and abruptly cut off the tune he was playing for a new one, a slow reel. She stomped out the rhythm deliberately, her steps precise and proficient, lifting her skirts in her hands to increase her freedom of movement. Slowly, the fiddler increased the tempo, and she in turn escalated the complexity of her dance, tossing in some hop-steps, and then, kicking higher, tapping her knees with her toes. He nodded, impressed, and then, throwing her a devilish grin, switched up the meter, launching into a slip jig tune. Her feet flew effortlessly from one dance to another as the fiddler changed up the rhythm again without warning. She flowed from slip jig to hop jig to light jig as he continued to challenge her, trying to throw her off of her stride. The bodhran tried to keep up, but dropped out after a time; this was a battle between the dancer and the fiddle, and everyone in the room stopped what they were doing to watch the show. The fiddler was perspiring freely as he increased the tempo, but she would not be shaken. She stomped, kicked, leaped, and twirled, feet moving ever faster, as the audience clapped and pounded the floor with their own feet in time to the ever-changing rhythm.

The fiddle reached a crescendo... and then, finally, with one last screeching, vibrating note, it halted. Exhausted, the musician let that final high-pitched sound hang in the air above the rapt crowd. Corrine's feet stopped at last, and she stood motionless atop the tables, chest heaving, triumphant. She had outlasted him, winning the friendly competition - and all the hearts in the room.

The fiddler conceded with a graceful bow, his grin of approval stretching from ear to ear. She laughed and saluted him in turn, leading the room in a round of applause for his skill.

She glanced over to Harry to gauge his reaction. She knew she was showing off, and she was suddenly apprehensive about how he would react to such a display. Would he be disapproving, or proud? To her surprise, Harry wasn't frowning, nor was he cheering or applauding. He was standing very still, mesmerized, mouth open and dark eyes filled with wonder.

How about that? she thought. I believe I impressed him.

As the clapping died down and the music started again, she held out her hand to him. "Care to escort a lady down?" she teased.

He lifted her by the waist, swinging her back down from the tables she had so recently set alight. "My darling, no lady could have done what you just did," he said solemnly.

Despite the thrill his endearment and the touch of his hands sent through her body, she had to giggle. After a second, he joined her. Laughing together, they held hands as he escorted her toward the door.

* * *

Song inspiration: Shut Up And Dance - Walk The Moon


	11. Chapter 10: A Million Stars

Thanks once again from the bottom of my heart for the reviews - you don't know how much they mean to me!

A/N: This chapter is one of my faves, and contains some of the most pivotal scenes in the whole story. I hope you enjoy reading it was much as I did writing it!

Also... warning: smut sighted ahead. Keep a sharp lookout.

* * *

The ship's officer and the emigrant burst out of the door into the cold night, still laughing.

"Where to now?" she asked, trying to catch her breath.

"The stern," he said decisively. "Other than the bridge, it's my favorite place on the ship."

"Why is that?" She gazed up into his eyes, curious.

"Because it's always the closest place to home - at least, on the voyage out. And because it's the most dimly lit, it's best place to see the stars."

She was touched and a little surprised by his sentimentality. "You miss home?"

"No matter how far I travel, my heart always calls me back," he said, a note of melancholy entering his voice.

"After tonight, I can most certainly relate," she confessed. "It made me miss Ireland something fierce, and here I thought I had not a single sappy bone in my body."

"And yet you're leaving it all forever to go to America," he said, bemused.

"Because I like a grand adventure - just like you," she reminded him teasingly. Deciding that it wasn't the best idea to discuss such a serious topic after a night of revelry and flirting, she changed the subject. "Come on then, let's see those stars," she said, smiling.

"Are you sure you won't be too cold?" he asked, concern furrowing his brow. "I can go back for my greatcoat-"

"No," she quickly reassured him. She couldn't feel the cold at all, she realized. Her blood was still running hot from the dancing - and his nearness. "I feel quite warm, actually."

He took her hand again, and she felt her heart skip a beat; it felt so natural, so right, to be connected to him in this way. He led her up the steps to the poop deck. Once at the top, he flicked his eyes upward and tensed slightly. Pulling her close, he whispered in her ear, "There's a quartermaster on the docking bridge. We have to be quiet."

She was so distracted by his presence that she barely registered his request, but nodded anyway. "Will you be recognized?" she asked, belatedly remembering to lower her voice.

He shrugged. "Not sure. If I keep to the shadows, maybe not. I certainly don't look like myself," he reminded her, gesturing to his half-undressed state, "and anyway, most of the crew don't even know my name, much less my face."

"Well, try not to sound like a toff, then, and you should be fine," she teased.

He chuckled. "Right, just for tonight I'll disguise myself as an impudent Welsh lad, out for a nighttime stroll with the best damn dancer on the ship." His eyes glowed with mirth in the dim light, and she saw that he had relaxed a bit, as if his fears of alerting the quartermaster to his presence were put at ease.

Because the poop deck was higher than the well deck, she felt a slight breeze that she hadn't below, likely created from ship's swift passage through the smooth water, and reached up to secure her hair back in its pins. "Don't." The command in his voice stayed her hand, and she looked up at him questioningly. "I like it unbound." His lovely accent was thicker and heavier than usual as he stared down at her.

Wide-eyed, she nodded, the loose tendrils left to curl untamed around her face. He paused for a moment to brush one from her cheek before taking her hand again and leading her under the bridge looming above them. They crept ever closer to the aftmost part of the ship, until they stood between the large capstans. It was indeed very dark - the only light came from behind them, other than a small lamp at the flagstaff. She went to move up to the stern railing, but he put a hand on her arm. "We'll stay right here. I know how you feel about heights." She started to protest, but he waved it off. "This is the perfect place for stargazing anyway," he said softly. "Go on. Look up."

She did, and gasped aloud. The sky had never been so black, and so endless; it felt like she would be swallowed in the void but for the glittering of the stars, which shone brighter than any diamond ever could. They appeared so crisp and clear - and so close - that it felt as if she could reach up and pull them down from the sky. She closed her eyes and stretched her hand above her head, trying to do just that. "I wish I could steal one from the heavens," she whispered, tightening her hand into a fist. It was a silly notion, she knew, but in the magic of that moment anything felt possible.

She opened her eyes to find him watching her, spellbound. "You already have," he said, his gaze intent on her. He lifted his hand to her face and gestured to her sparkling eyes, then ran a finger slowly down her cheek to the corner of her mouth.

She saw his eyes linger on her lips for a moment. She stared up at him, near swooning from the cocoon that the night had cast around the two of them, and the closeness of his body. Dizzily, her mind wondered: was that the real reason he took her out here, to kiss her under the stars?

If so, it was about time - and she was more than ready. She waited, breathless, for him to make the first move, her eyelids half-closing in anticipation, when out of the corner of her eye, a flash in the sky caught her attention. Tearing her eyes away from him, she glanced upward, above his head. "Oh! A shooting star! Look!"

He had been slowly leaning toward her, but now he jumped back, startled. Regaining his composure quickly, he turned and followed her pointing finger, just in time to catch the tail end of the comet fading into the void.

She clasped her hands together, elated. "How perfectly wonderful! I've never seen one before, Harry!" She sighed contentedly.

He turned back to her, his earlier intensity dissolving easily into lighthearted indulgence. "You know what you have to do now. Make a wish, Corrine."

She nodded. Well, that one will be easy, she thought. Squeezing her eyes shut and concentrating with all her might, she thought...

I wish this moment could last forever...

And it seemed, for a time, that she would have her wish. They stood shoulder to shoulder, gazing together at the heavens. She felt suddenly so small and insignificant in the face of such magnitude, like she could float off the edge of the world and become lost in the ether. And yet... his hand was an anchor, holding her to the earth, making her feel less alone and scared than she had ever thought possible. In this frozen moment of time, she could easily imagine that they were the only two people in the entire universe. Everything else had receded; she could hear no other sound but his breathing, feel nothing else but the warmth of him next to her.

"Harry, I've never seen anything more beautiful," she breathed, and meant not only the night, but him - and this otherworldly experience - as well. "I never knew the sky had so many stars," she said in wonder. A sudden thought occurred to her, and she turned to him. "Do you know all of them?"

He grinned down at her. "I know a lot of them," he admitted confidently. "Mastery of stellar observations is a very important part of navigation."

"Can you teach me? she asked earnestly. "To navigate, I mean."

"Truly?" He looked closely at her. "You really want to learn?"

She nodded, all wide-eyed enthusiasm and childlike interest. "Of course. I want to know your world, Harry," she said simply.

He raised his eyebrows, as if in disbelief. "Corrine, you're just full of surprises, aren't you?" He thought for a minute, then shook his head regretfully. "I'd love to show you, but I need a sextant."

"A... who?" she asked, confused.

His mouth quirked up in a small grin. "Not a who, a what. A sextant is used for measuring the distance between the horizon and something in the sky, like the sun, or the stars. It's how you determine where you are. I don't have one with me now, of course," he added. "But next time we come out here, I'll bring one, and I'll show you."

Next time... her heart fluttered. It was a promise of things to come, a sign that he wanted to continue to spend time with her on their voyage. Oh, heavens, she thought, how on earth did I get so lucky?

Pulling herself back from her lightheaded reverie, she gestured to the sky and asked, "Do you have a favorite?"

"A favorite... star?" he repeated, amused. "I suppose I never thought of it before. But... let's see... I've always favored the constellation Orion..." He lifted her hand with his, tracing the outline of the constellation, which sat low in the sky, with her finger. "...and those three stars right in a line there make up his belt." Still holding her hand, he moved his body slightly behind hers and pointed with his left hand to the three bright stars hanging in a row at the center. He was so close that he was almost embracing her; his body brushed her back, and his warm breath stirred the hair on her neck. "So... I'll say Alnilam, the star right in the middle, is my favorite." He leaned down and grinned wickedly at her. "Now every time you look at the night sky, you'll be looking for a man's belt to guide your way."

Flustered, she giggled and looked up at him - and then realized his face was close, so close, to hers. Her heart jumped in her chest, so loudly that she was sure he heard it. He's going to kiss me this time! she thought deliriously. He's-

His eyes snapped upward, as if caught by some movement on the bridge above, and he hesitated. "Damn," he swore softly under his breath. "I know that chap. Come, before he sees my face." He took her elbow gently and led her away from the stern.

"But I don't want to go inside yet," she softly protested, as they reached the shadows under the bridge.

He looked around, satisfied that they were now out of sight and earshot of the quartermaster, and gave her a stern look. "I didn't say I was taking you in, Corrine," he admonished. His voice roughened. "I won't let you go... not until I get what I want."

Her stomach did a slow flip. "And what is that, Harry?" she asked, a catch in her voice.

He stalked slowly toward her... then suddenly grabbed her by the waist and twirled her around, catching her completely by surprise. "Another dance," he snickered.

She shrieked, and he hurriedly shushed her, pressing his lips close to her ear. The whispering, intimate sound sent a sudden shiver of desire down her spine, and she fought a rising urge to take the initiative and kiss him. He lowered her back to the deck, but kept his hands planted on her waist.

When she remembered to breathe again, she affected a conceited tone, and mock-scolded him: "Ah, so that's why you like spending time with me? Because I dance like an angel?"

"No, because you dance like the devil - which makes for a far merrier time," he said, giving her an equally brash grin. Then he shook his head, suddenly turning serious. "In fact, I don't think I've had as much merriment in my entire life as I've had in the past few days with you."

She was surprised by his sincere and sober tone - and his declaration. "Really, Harry?" she said, feeling suddenly giddy. "Perhaps you've been in the world of men for so long, you forgot what it was like to be in the company of a woman, is all," she said teasingly.

His expressive eyes suddenly shuttered, as if something were hiding in their depths, but it passed so quickly she thought she must have imagined it. He shook his head again emphatically. "No, I've never met anyone like you, Corrine. You have this... strength about you, a quiet determination... and yet, you still live life to the fullest. You're a free spirit if there ever was one."

"What a coincidence, Harry; I could say the very same things about you," she said lightly, a bit embarrassed by his ardent flattery. "Maybe that's why we get on so well."

He continued undeterred. "And you're fearless - except for heights, that is-" At that, he laughed, and she joined in. "And lively, and charming, and candid... and, you're a right comely lass, on top of it all." He winked.

"You're pretty scrummy yourself, you know," she said, echoing Katie's assessment, and his eyes lit with amusement at the compliment. "But why me, Harry? There's a thousand little Irish lasses just like me," she assured him.

He laughed gently and took both of her hands. "Only one that I want to spend time with," he said, brushing off her objections. He hesitated, looked suddenly vulnerable, and then plunged ahead. "Corrine... you're different from everyone else I've ever known, because... you accept who I am. Even the ugly bits. You don't want me to... to be anyone, or anything, other than me. And that means more than you could ever know."

"And why would I want you to change, Harry?" she asked, genuinely perplexed. "You're perfect just as you are." She flushed as she realized she had probably said too much, but he looked deeply moved by her confession.

He squeezed her hands, and this time his smile was almost wistful. "Corrine, you're too good to be true," he said softly.

She tried one more time to protest, sure that he was exaggerating. "Harry, I assure you, I am completely ordinary in every way," she insisted, laughing self-consciously.

He shook his head resolutely, his eyes shining with affection. "Not to me," he whispered.

All of her resistance melted under the warmth of his gaze. He stepped closer to her, cupping her cheek with his hand. He studied her expression, her eyes, her lips. Now his own eyes held a question. Silently, she nodded.

She let her eyes drift closed as he lowered his face to hers.

The touch of his lips was so gentle and feather-light, it felt like a caress. Slowly, so slowly, he moved his mouth on hers, tentatively exploring. Heart hammering in her chest, she responded to his touch by intensifying the kiss, pressing her lips firmly against his.

His eyes flicked open briefly in surprise, then closed again as he surrendered to her. She reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck, while his own hands drifted back to her waist. His lips brushed hers over and over, learning the contours of her mouth, tracing it with kisses that were soft, sensual, and warm. Gradually, he grew bolder, and his tongue flicked the outside of her mouth. With a moan, she opened to him, and pulled his head down closer, the better to taste him.

When their tongues entwined, she gasped at the touch, at the intimacy. He pulled back and grazed her lips with his again, searched her eyes for hesitation and found none, and then dove back in for more. Their mouths locked together ardently, and she lost track of time and space as she was consumed by him, their tongues licking and prodding, lips sucking, warm breath mingling.

She had never experienced such a rush of sensation before. The few fumbling times a boy had tried to kiss her after a dance or a festival, she had quickly turned her head away, filled with a sense of disgust at the moist and eager act, a sense of shame and embarrassment at a sentiment that she could not return. But this time... with this man... it stirred something in her, made her light-headed and breathless with a yearning she didn't understand. Hot blood coursed through her veins, heating her whole body. Every nerve ending was on fire, all of her senses overloaded. Delirious, she could only muse in wonder that she had no idea it was supposed to feel this good.

Gradually, their kisses deepened, became wetter, more demanding. He nipped her lower lip with his teeth, and she made a low, unexpectedly guttural sound against his lips in return. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she was surprised by this; it was as if her body didn't even belong to her anymore. The pull of his mouth on hers had awakened something new and alien inside her, something that filled the lower half of her torso with molten liquid. Her breasts felt heavy, and she had a peculiar, restless ache between her legs. Her breathing ragged, she clutched his shirt, pulling him closer to her, needing to hold him, to feel the length of his body against her.

She gasped when she felt his hardness pressing into her belly. His eyes snapped open and he went still, studying her face carefully.

He must have seen her wide eyes and mistook them for fear, because he withdrew a bit, his face flushing. "Sorry, I-"

"Don't be," she whispered. "I'm not scared." The knowledge that he wanted her awoke some dark, primal side that she hadn't known existed. Emboldened, she slowly, deliberately, pressed herself against him and reached up on tiptoe to claim his mouth with hers.

He responded with such enthusiasm that she thought they both might spontaneously combust. Any inhibitions, any sense of him holding himself back, were gone now. His warm mouth searched hers, probing, tantalizing. His hands roved from her waist to the small of her back, then down to her hips, finally cupping her buttocks. It seemed he couldn't touch enough of her, and the feeling was mutual. She ran her fingers through his hair, then caressed his face, his broad shoulders, and finally stroked the hard muscles of his chest, kissing him all the while.

She was hot and cold all at once - her world had shrunk to a whirl of longing, a burning brown gaze, a pounding heart, eager moans. And through it all, she was acutely aware of the feel of his body against hers, his swollen member pushing insistently into her belly. She had only a shadowy notion of the mechanics of intimacy - but here was the proof, in the flesh, so to speak, and quite conspicuous at that. She had done this to him - she had aroused him, made him want to do things to her that she was only dimly aware of, and it made her feel powerful, beautiful, alive.

God, he felt so good. She needed more of him... her body cried out to be touched, stroked, kissed, teased. She spread her legs apart, looping one around his hip, intensifying the angle and friction between them. She rubbed herself against the bulge in his trousers, no longer quite lucid, just wanting... needing... to ease the unbearable tension in her body. Groaning loudly, he gripped her thighs in his hands and lifted her onto him, and then shuddered with pleasure as she responded by wrapping both of her legs around his hips and hooking them behind his back. He swept the layers of skirts aside and yanked her closer, and she moaned against his mouth at the sudden flare of need that tore through her at the feel of his arousal pushing against her sensitive flesh. His eyes ablaze, he ravaged her wild, swollen lips with his own as he supported her slight frame in his arms. She was pressed fully against his groin, clinging to his neck, and she ground against him, uttering soft cries of delight as her hips moved in time with his kisses.

* * *

Stop, a distant voice warned in his head.

Harold ignored it.

Dear God, he was going to make her come soon, he thought wonderingly. Her rapturous moans and her increasingly more desperate thrusts against him suggested that she was rapidly approaching an orgasm. He wondered if she even knew what was happening to her body. He could feel her wetness leaking through the flimsy undergarments she wore. All he had to do was reach down and touch her slick folds through the thin cloth, and she'd be done for.

He wasn't in much better shape himself. His cock strained the confines of his trousers, and the friction of their frantic movements, along with the dampness wetting them both through, were going to lead to a rather embarrassing and messy situation soon. Greedily, not caring, he kissed her jaw, her neck, sucked on the sensitive spot by her collarbone, and she gasped and moaned incoherently into his ear while his yearning mouth marked her as his.

Oh, she was close now. Her head was thrown back, eyes glazed over with lust, neck and chest flushed despite the chill in the air. Her movements against him were becoming faster, more and more erratic. She was reaching, striving toward her climax, heedless of the cold, the ship, the world around them.

Stop, the voice came again, louder and more insistent this time.

Fuck me, he thought miserably. Why does my inner voice have to sound so much like Lightoller?

He freed his mouth from her neck, slowly lifted her away from his body, and set her gently on the deck.

She stared up at him, eyes haunted, hurt, confused. Her body trembled like a leaf in the wind, and he had to reach out and steady her before she fell.

"I'm sorry," was all he could manage to gasp out.

He stood there, head lowered and panting heavily, not even trying to hide the wet spot on the front of his trousers.

Her confusion turned to anger. "Why did you stop?" she demanded accusingly.

He sighed, running his hand through his hair. "Because I don't want to take your maidenhead on the deck of a ship, Corrine," he ground out, frustration roughening his voice.

"I'm not-" she blustered, her face turning dark red. "How do you know I... erm..."

"Because I can just tell. And because you can't even talk about it without blushing," he said gently.

She sighed and hid her face in her hands.

He approached her carefully, as if she were a skittish animal. "I'm sorry, Corrine, I never should have let it get that far," he soothed, as he reached out a tentative hand to touch her shoulder. "I... care about you too much to get carried away like that."

She looked up at him through her fingers.

"Come here," he said, holding his arms out to her.

She went to him then. He turned her so her back was facing him, then wrapped his arms around her waist and held her tightly against his body. Their earlier ardor had cooled, and she leaned back comfortably against his chest. He played with the cuffs of her sleeves, his lips roving over her hair.

Harold had always been a man of action. If there was something he wanted, he pursued it with single-minded determination, and damn the consequences. And right now, he knew he never wanted this moment - or any other one with her - to end. She had captivated him, captured his heart in a way that no one else had ever done. It was time to ask her the question that had been building in him since the day they first met.

"Corrine?" he murmured.

"Mmmm?" She snuggled deeper into his arms, fighting the chilled air with the warmth of his body.

"When the voyage is over, and Titanic docks... I... I don't want this to be over. I want to know..." he took a deep breath, "if you'll wait for me. Will you be my girl, Corrine?"

She turned to face him, her eyes luminous in the starlight.

He said hastily, "I know we've only known each other a few days, and you may need some time..."

"Yes," she whispered onto his lips. "Yes, I'll wait for you, Harry. I'm already yours."

It was that simple; it was that profound. And with that promise, everything changed.

* * *

She floated back to her stateroom that night. Kate and Katie had already returned; Thomas, Katie said excitedly, had walked them back to their room like a real gentleman. But all of that was forgotten once Corrine told them where she had been - and with whom.

They were thrilled to hear that Harry and Corrine had come to an 'understanding', as Kate called it, but were far more interested in her indecent rendezvous. They squealed and demanded every detail - even the embarrassing ones. So she told them as much as she could manage, although at times she blushed to the roots of her hair.

Katie, who had much more experience with love than Corrine, knowingly told her that what they had done was called 'dry humping'. Corrine thought the name absurd, since there was nothing dry about it. Kate scolded her for her immodest behavior, but Corrine could tell that she was secretly jealous. Kate, like her, had never had a boy court her, and so was as naive as Corrine. Kate asked her what it was like, to kiss and touch a real live man. "It was... incredible," Corrine said dreamily.

"The real thing is even better," Katie said with a sly wink.

That night, Corrine tossed and turned in her bunk for a long time before she was finally able to drift off into a restless sleep.

* * *

Harold strolled into the wheelhouse that night a full fifteen minutes before his watch began. He was whistling a merry tune that sounded vaguely Irish and had a noticeable spring in his step. Olliver, at the wheel, gave him a sidelong look but said nothing. Sixth Officer Moody, however, raised his eyebrows. "What's got into you? Seems an odd time to be this cheerful."

Harold slapped him on the back and grinned. "Nothing, old man. Just enjoying life."

"Enjoying a girl, more like," said Moody, grinning back. "Didn't know you had anyone special."

Harold stared out of the wheelhouse into the calm, dark night beyond. "I do now," he said quietly, feeling a sense of peace settle in his wanderer's heart at last.

Olliver and Moody exchanged a puzzled glance behind his back, but asked no more questions.

* * *

Happy Valentine's Day, Dear Readers :)

Despite the sexy bits, the songs that I listened to over and over while writing this chapter were purely romantic ones: A Million Dreams, Rewrite The Stars, and Never Enough - all three are from The Greatest Showman soundtrack (one of my faves). In fact, the titles of those songs inspired the title of the chapter.

Yinz better buckle up, though. Part 2 is coming.


	12. Chapter 11: Impact

Sorry I didn't post a chapter last week - I was out of town last weekend, and also had a big work deadline this week. Plus, a part of me mentally had to prepare for this next section :)

Reviewers - I love you all! Both registered and guest reviewers have said just the nicest, most supportive things, and I just want you to know how much it's appreciated. You're the reason I have the courage to keep posting!

* * *

Part 2

Corrine Donnelly was almost asleep when she felt the collision.

It wasn't much, really. A shudder, a grinding scrape, and then a few small bumps. But it was enough to cause her to open her eyes fully in the darkness of her room.

It had taken forever for her to settle into bed that night because she kept waiting for Harry to show up. He had taken to surprising her: in the morning, during his watch, he appeared on the stairs leading up from the dining room to E deck. He beckoned her to a little-used crew passageway, where he pushed her up against a wall and stole a few quick but passionate kisses before he went back above to round the ship. They held back their wilder urges this time, instead indulging in gentle caresses and murmured promises. She knew it was a sin, but she couldn't stop thinking about the feel of his body on hers during Mass that morning, causing her to blush and smile inappropriately all throughout the service, and earning stern looks from the priest. At four in the afternoon, Mr. Kieran brought her a single pink rose that had been swiped from a first-class table setting. There was no note, but a wink from the steward and the reference to an 'admirer' gave Harry away. Kate and Katie sighed and fanned themselves dramatically when she brought it to their room in a small glass of water she flagged down from Steward Hart.

She knew he was on duty from noon to four, and then six until eight... and after that, he was free until midnight, when he was on watch until the early hours. Oh, what naughtiness might they get up to tonight? she wondered. Her imagination - as much as her limited experience allowed, of course - ran away with her. She wondered where and how she could manage to get him alone - and for how long. She felt feverish, restless. She paced back and forth through the third class dining room, to the common rooms, across the well deck, and back again, dodging acquaintances and questioning looks. She looked up at the first- and second-class promenade decks; she peeked around hallways; she peered up the stairs. Still, he didn't come.

At 11:15, resigned, she had returned to her room to lie down. As she lay there, unable to sleep, she scolded herself for her unrealistic expectations. As if he didn't have anything better to do! Maybe he was socializing with his fellow officers, getting to know them at last. Maybe he had been called to the bridge to double-check his figures. Maybe he was hungry and was eating a late dinner. Maybe... anything could have happened. It was ridiculous of her to expect him to spend every free moment with her!

And yet she had - and she couldn't help but feel disappointed when he never appeared.

Now, just as her body was finally surrendering to a much-needed break from her whirlwind of thoughts, the jolt came. It was subtle - it reminded her a ripping sound felt but not heard - but noticeable just the same. Drowsily, she wondered what might have happened. Did something fall over in the kitchens?

She became fully awake when she realized she could no longer hear or feel the throb of engines.

* * *

Harold Lowe was dead to the world.

He had been sleep-deprived even before they left Southampton, of course. Helping to prepare the ship for sailing - loading passengers, goods, cargo, checking equipment, and much more - was a herculean task, and the majority of it was delegated to the junior officers. Not that he was complaining of course; the opportunity he had been given, to serve on the largest ship in the world, eclipsed any minor discomfort. But it did take a toll on him, and the loss of sleep only got worse once the voyage began. The four-hour on, four-hour off watches, not to mention the damnable dog watches, began to slowly wear away his stamina. Although during his watch he was clear-eyed and alert, constantly in motion performing all the minutiae needed for accurate navigation, off-duty he was suffering the effects of exhaustion, which had only been made worse when he began spending as much time as possible with Corrine.

Meeting her changed everything for him. Instead of experiencing the world in black and white, he now saw an explosion of brightness and color, as if everything were now seen through a prism. There was a clarity to the world that had never been there before. He noticed the smallest things: the swirl of her skirts, the sound of her saucy giggle, the scent of the sea in her sun-kissed hair... and everything he saw and felt when she wasn't there reminded him of her. He felt reborn, a new man entirely, and wished he could shout the truth of his heart to the world. These moments with her gave him renewed life, and kept him going long past the point that a more sensible person would have reached his limits and collapsed. But he was heedless of the need for sleep - heedless of the need for anything but her.

He knew he was taking an incredibly dangerous risk. Every officer was well aware of the strict policy against fraternizing with passengers. The White Star Line was adamant on that point: there were absolutely no exceptions. And he knew that Lightoller had sensed something between him and Corrine even from the very first day. He had seen them together twice now, and although he hadn't caught them again since that unfortunate encounter on the boat deck, his stern glares at him during watch changes said it all. He was warning him, without saying a word, that he was keeping a close eye on him, and that he had better toe the line. Lightoller's knowledge of his burgeoning relationship with Corrine put his entire way of life in jeopardy. The sea was all he knew... all he had ever wanted. If Lightoller told anyone, he would lose his berth immediately, perhaps even his entire livelihood - especially if his indiscretion were somehow tied to dereliction of duty, like being late for watches. So far, it appeared that the senior officer had kept his suspicions to himself and not told the captain. But he couldn't count on his benevolence forever.

There was another reason to be cautious as well. He had witnessed Corrine's sexual awakening last night - and it scared him. To be sure, the courtship aspect of their relationship was new to him; in the past, he had never found anyone worth courting properly, and thus he had never bothered to learn the rules. So in the beginning, he had acted like an infatuated fool around Corrine, blushing and stammering; in short, his usual smooth self-control was absent. In that, at least, they were evenly matched. But the more physical aspects of their relationship... well, he was no stranger to intimacy, and in that area he was far more confident. But he knew that despite her assertions about not being a lady, she was innocent, untouched. Still, he had never had a woman want him the way she had last night. It was both exhilarating and alarming, to know that he held such sway over a girl he cared so much about. He had to make sure that he didn't consume her, and end up hurting her either emotionally or physically. Damn it, he had never felt so protective of anyone before - and the irony was that the person he had to protect her from the most was himself.

Yet he couldn't seem to stay away from Corrine, no matter how many times he rationalized to himself that he needed to try. He had desperately wanted to see her again tonight, after his watch ended. By now he knew exactly where to find her at any given time, and all he could think about was running to her side and stealing a few more precious moments with her.

But the thrill of a blossoming new romance combined with the brutal watch schedule had finally caught up with him. After his watch ended at eight, he crawled gratefully into his bed, promising himself he'd wake up in just an hour or two and search her out. As he drifted off, he idly wondered if he could find a way to bring Corrine up to his cabin, and if Pitman and Moody would say anything if they heard improper noises coming from behind his door.

With those pleasant fantasies swirling through his mind, he fell headlong into slumber.

* * *

"Everyone up, lifebelts on!" called a steward, knocking on their door.

Katie sat up, grousing and stretching. "What on earth...? Who woke me from my beauty sleep?"

Corrine, who had been lying quite awake in bed since she felt the grinding, jarring bump earlier, rose and climbed down from her bunk. She dressed quickly, throwing on boots and her blue dress but leaving her hair undone in her haste.

"Where are you going?" asked Kate sleepily.

"To see what all the fuss is about," Corrine said. In truth, she had had an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach ever since she had awakened. The steward's unexpected arrival and abrupt knock on their door had only heightened her anxiety. She needed to go see for herself that everything was well. That sound, that feeling... it wasn't right.

She slipped out of their room and closed the door. She turned toward the stairs. Nothing to be seen here, and yet... she walked forward down Scotland Road, past the stairs to the dining room, and then down one flight to F deck, just to be sure. She looked to her left, and was surprised to see men staggering from their berths in the bow, carrying bags, luggage, and boxes. Strange, she thought; what are they doing here...?

And then she noticed a thin trickle of water on the floor.

She hurried back up to E and then aft to their room, slamming the door shut to get her berthmates' attention. "Girls, you need to get dressed - right now. I think we've hit something."

That startled them into action, and they began flying around the room, peppering questions at her as they hurriedly put their clothes on. Yes, she had seen water; yes, that was a steward earlier, telling them to put their lifebelts on. No, she didn't know what they hit; no, she wasn't sure if it was serious.

"But we'd better be prepared anyway," she advised. "So put these on, too." Hopping up on the wall seat, she dragged the lifebelts from the top shelf and tossed one to each of them.

Katie scoffed at her. "And do you think I'll be wearing one of these on the largest and most unsinkable ship in the world? I'll be a laughingstock for sure!" she said.

Corrine groaned. "Fine, then carry it with you for now," she said. "But we have to go, and find out more about what's happening."

Finally dressed, minus their coats and lifebelts, which they carried in their arms, they left the room. Right before the door closed, Corrine darted back in and reached up to grab her money purse from the wall tidy near her bunk. It seemed silly to be so cautious, but better safe than sorry, she thought. She stuffed it - and the rose - deep in her coat pocket and followed the two girls down the hall.

After discussing it amongst themselves, they decided to go to the one place they knew both men and families would gather: the dining room. Indeed, the large space was already crowded with people, and more trickled in every minute. No one seemed to know what was happening, and rumors were spreading quickly. We've thrown a propeller, a big man insisted. We'll be underway in no time. No, said a woman, I've heard it was an iceberg. Nonsense, said a man carrying his luggage. We've arrived in New York early, is all, and we've run aground. But they'll soon dig us out again and make us right, and we'll be on our way soon. Why, our arrival might even make the front page of the morning papers!

* * *

Shortly after midnight, Fourth Officer Boxhall pounded on the fifth officer's cabin door. Hearing no response, he threw open the door and turned on the light.

"Get up, old man. We have hit a berg," he said without preamble.

Harold rolled halfway over and mumbled something.

Boxhall waited a few seconds longer, but he was anxious to return to Captain Smith and receive his next order. Satisfied that he had gotten his attention and the junior officer had been adequately informed, Boxhall left, leaving the light on.

Harold slept on, a deep, dreamless, peaceful sleep.

* * *

Corrine was tired of waiting.

Patience was never her strong suit; the lack of it went along with her curiosity, she supposed. Nobody was coming down from the top decks with any information. Stewards were still bustling around, distributing and tying lifebelts. Many passengers treated the gathering as another opportunity to socialize. Someone brought out a tin whistle, and the atmosphere soon became lively. Children danced around underfoot, and women poked fun at one another in their bulky lifebelts.

One group of passengers that wasn't quite so amused were the men she had seen earlier dragging their belongings. Maneuvering through the crowds, she made her way toward them.

"What happened?" she asked the group urgently.

"Dunno," one man grunted. "One minute we was asleep, and the next, we was on our backs on the floor. The whole room was shaking like this," he said, moving his hands to show her. "Two minutes later, and we was up to our ankles in water. We got out as fast we could then."

"They told us to get our lifebelts," an Irish lad said. "But when we tried to go back to our cabins, the water was already creeping up the steps."

The news sent a chill racing down her spine. Something was seriously wrong. If that were the case, they all might be in danger. And Harry would be right in the thick of it.

* * *

A/N: Cliffhanger, I know! But this whole section's gonna be like that - we've arrived at The Sinking, after all, and there's no way for me to tell it _without_ leaving you in suspense. Also, apologies if anyone gets notifications about updates on previously published chapters; I went back and fixed a few typos here and there, but didn't change the story, so no worries if you're all caught up - nothing's different!

FYI: there is a NSFW deleted scene from the beginning of this chapter that I will likely include later, if there's interest.


	13. Chapter 12: Explosions

A/N: So the consensus (through both comments and private messages) seems to be that readers are interested in the NSFW scene I referenced in the last chapter. So you shall have it - but not until later. Haha. There's a reason for that, which I hope will become clear in time. And when I post it, I will change the rating and give a warning for those not wanting to wade through smut.

If you're familiar with the story of the Titanic, you'll recognize some of the scenes from the earlier chapter (Lowe sleeping through the collision, Boxhall trying to wake him up). I've tried to make these next sections as historically accurate as possible, because there's a wealth of information on Lowe's whereabouts and actions that night. Unfortunately, most of it doesn't appear in the movie - although I totally would've watched the hell out of any flick that did nothing but follow Lowe around the night of the sinking :)

Reviewers: all I can say is THANK YOU. You have made posting a joy; knowing there are people out there even reading this, much less liking it, is really a dream come true. And it makes my day to hear from you - so please do continue!

* * *

Harold awoke to the sound of ladies' voices outside his cabin door.

His first thought was of Corrine. Was that her? Why was she here? Was everything all right?

He bolted upright, threw the covers off, bounded out of bed, and wrenched open the door. Still in bare feet and pajamas, he stepped out of his cabin onto the deck.

The sight he saw defied explanation. Passengers - men, women, and children - were hurrying along the boat deck in lifebelts. And - the ship was down by the bow. He could feel it in his feet, the ever-so-slight tilt forward that only an experienced seaman would notice.

Alarmed, he slammed the door and hastily threw on his uniform, shoes, cap, and greatcoat. He had no idea what had happened, but he recognized at once that it was an emergency. Why hadn't he been notified?

He dashed from his cabin and ran forward from the port side. Outside, the noise was deafening; the funnels were blasting off steam, and the roar filled his ears. He searched frantically until he found Captain Smith near the bridge.

"Captain Smith! Sir!" he shouted. "What's happened? Why are the passengers on deck in lifebelts?"

But something was odd about the captain. Normally self-assured and charismatic, he was strangely hesitant. He opened his mouth, started to say something, and trailed off. Harold waited impatiently, but Smith just continued to stare off in the distance, as if traumatized.

Lightoller came up behind him suddenly. "Mr. Lowe - report to the starboard side at once and assist Mr. Murdoch. We have struck an iceberg, and there has been significant damage. We need to start lowering women and children in the lifeboats." He spared a glance for Smith, who nodded vaguely.

Bloody hell! A berg? How the fuck did that happen? Harold thought frantically, unable to wrap his mind around the devastating news. He knew they hadn't been up on the ice during his six to eight watch, but everyone knew it was coming; they had all seen the warning on the chart room board. His eyes traveled upward, to the crow's nest. Were they unable to see it in time to avoid it, because-

He glanced at Lightoller, who was watching him as if reading his mind. Was that a flash of guilt he saw in the older man's eyes? Whatever it was, it was quickly gone, and Lightoller waved him on impatiently.

Harold didn't wait. He flew over to the starboard side, passing through the bridge, and found Murdoch readying one of the forward boats for loading.

He jumped in to help, fitting cranks and unloading lines, still without fully understanding the magnitude of the situation. But one thought persistently gnawed at him: somehow, he had to find Corrine and make sure she was safe.

* * *

Corrine found Kate and Katie where she had left them, involved in an animated conversation with two girls from Finland that consisted mostly of hand motions and single-word sentences. The girls were giggling and holding their lifebelts, and seemed to be having quite a merry time figuring out the logistics of wearing them.

"Come on. We have to go."

All four of them looked up at her, uncomprehending. "Go where?" Katie protested. "It's just getting interesting!" Corrine saw that she was making eyes across the room at Thomas, who nodded at her and winked.

"We have to get above. Now," Corrine insisted. Anxiety was gnawing at her gut, making her testy.

The girls resisted; they were comfortable, it was warm here, there was no reason to hurry.

She took a deep breath. "I think something is wrong with the ship. Something serious. And if that's the case, we need to get to a lifeboat." She said it calmly but firmly, hoping to impress upon them how serious their situation was.

With the word 'lifeboat', she had caught their attention at last. Glancing at one another, Katie and Kate slowly rose from their seats. The Finnish girls looked at each other uneasily, one quickly translating for the other, then they got up as well.

Corrine started toward the door, then turned back. "I think it's time to put on those coats and lifebelts, too," she told them. Her pale, serious face, in sharp contrast to the merriment of the room, alarmed them.

Wide-eyed, they did as she said, and the little group trooped toward the staircase.

* * *

"Lower away! Lower away!" the hysterical man in carpet slippers screamed. He pulled on the ropes holding the lifeboat to the davit.

Harold exploded. "If you would get the hell out of my way, I might be able to do something! Do you want me to hurry? You'll have me drown the lot of them!" Shoving the man aside, he continued carefully working the falls.

He was helping to load and lower his second boat that night. Already one had been launched from the starboard side. They'd had a hell of a time filling it. No one thought the ship was really in any danger, and the passengers all preferred to remain on the brightly lit decks, where it seemed so safe, rather than dangle precariously above the sea in a tiny boat.

But Harold had looked into Murdoch's eyes, and knew the truth. Murdoch had been the officer of the watch when the iceberg had hit. He knew, better than anyone else, the damage that berg had caused. And although Murdoch remained calm and professional, the bleak expression in his eyes said it all. The ship was doomed - and with it, nearly two-thirds of its human cargo. The quartermasters had been dutifully taking the temperature of the water the entire voyage; it was currently at or below freezing, if the previous readings were anything to go by. And that meant there would be no surviving this night, unless it was in a lifeboat.

He had to make certain Corrine was in one of them-

"Shit!" he swore under his breath, as the rope suddenly jerked in his hands. He turned behind him to see one of those rich tycoons kicking it out of the way of an overdressed, overweight woman that looked like his mother. He groaned, exasperated. How was he ever going to get the boats lowered if these bloody idiots kept fouling the ropes? And where the hell were these people when he was calling for more passengers to fill the boats?

"Get the hell off the falls, damn it!" he snarled, eliciting a chorus of outraged gasps from the ladies in the boat he was working. Oh, fuck off, he thought, but he kept that one to himself. If he survived the night, he didn't need to be answering to management for his colorful language.

* * *

Corrine's group made their way to the third-class staircase and ran into another mass of people. This crowd was not so orderly as the one in the dining room. Here, the mood had turned from festive and curious to restless. They were pushing and shoving, jostling for position on the stairs. Corrine's eyes traveled upward, to the top of the staircase. A man, a sailor or steward - she couldn't tell from this height - was blocking the way, shouting down to the milling crowd to wait their turn, that they would be allowed to go up to the top deck once all the first-class passengers had boarded the lifeboats.

She shook her head. That couldn't be right, could it? Did the White Star Line really enforce a class system in loading their boats?

Her restless anxiety had given way to a sense of foreboding that she couldn't shake. She was overcome with a need to move, to do something. And overriding everything was a compulsion to find Harry, to make sure he was all right.

"Girls, I'll be back. Stay right here," she ordered the group behind her. She began pushing her way through the crowd, heedless of the grousing of the other passengers and the elbows she was receiving for her efforts.

She was halfway up the stairs when she heard a sharp crack, a whistle, and then an explosion. All heads turned toward the ceiling, but no one could make out what it was until a man shouted down from the door to the well deck: "They're shooting off rockets above!"

The group on the staircase began muttering uneasily. They knew that the rocket hadn't been sent up to entertain the first-class passengers. It was a sign of real trouble. And yet, still no one came to their aid.

* * *

That damn rocket had gone off right next to him, nearly deafening him, and further fraying his already strained nerves.

The mood on the boat deck was still generally jovial, although some of the men were becoming more strident in their efforts to get their wives to board the boats, while simultaneously trying not to alarm them. Harold respected their wishes, giving them time to cajole their women, while at the same time wishing that they would move on just a little bit faster.

But some men, however, were quietly boarding with the women, and Murdoch allowed it. At least, he said nothing to discourage it. It wasn't Harold's business; he was a junior officer, and the loading of the boats wasn't up to him. The senior officers were superintending, and his job was to do as he was told. But he couldn't help noticing that some of these male passengers didn't ask permission, or even wait to see if any women needed to board. They just hopped in and sat down for all the world like they had every right to take a spot.

Such was the case with the American couple that now sidled up to the boat. An Egyptian servant followed the pair obsequiously, carrying a small dog. Without paying much attention, Harold handed the woman over to a seaman standing in the boat, then moved away as Murdoch gave the signal to begin preparing it for lowering.

While his back was turned, the husband of the woman he had just helped stuffed something in his greatcoat pocket, next to the electric torch the ship's doctor had brought for him earlier. "Here's a little something for your efforts, good fellow," he said haughtily, then jumped into the boat, followed by his servant. Puzzled, Harold put his hand in and felt a stack of bills. Angry and insulted, he whirled around, intending to throw the money at the bastard and give him a piece of his mind - and found himself staring into the eyes of the man that had run into Corrine coming out of the grand staircase, the one whose wife had insulted her so roundly.

Harold froze, and recognition dawned on the man's face as well.

"Lower away!" Murdoch called out.

Disbelieving, Harold looked over and saw the man's wife smiling at him smugly. "Where is your betrothed now, sir?" she asked triumphantly, emphasizing the word 'betrothed' in a grotesque and pitch-perfect imitation of his tone the previous day.

Murdoch neither understood nor cared about their exchange. "I said lower away!" he shouted.

Harold stared at them for another second, eyes brimming with hatred, before he knelt to the deck and began lowering away.

* * *

Corrine edged ever closer to the top of the stairs. Just as she had finally reached the landing, she saw a man in uniform shoving through the door from the deck outside. Her heart leaped in her throat. Harry...?

But it wasn't him. Instead, Steward Hart appeared. "I have orders to bring the women and children up to the boat deck at this time!" he called. "I need only women and children - men, stand back!"

The people around her looked at each other, perturbed. Most everyone was traveling as a family, or in groups of both men and women, and no one wanted to be parted from their men. A mother next to her flatly refused to go, murmuring to her husband, "We'll never leave you, dear." She held a tiny boy nestled in her arms, sleepily sucking his thumb. The rest of her large family - five other children, all older, but most young enough to be saved - clustered around them.

Corrine glanced over at the husband and saw him nod silently at his wife, his face anguished. Corrine turned away, stricken, knowing that he had just sentenced his entire family to death.

Others, though, did congregate next to Hart, mostly young, single women, but a few women with small children went as well. Her steward suddenly spotted her in the crowd, and his eyes lit up.

"Come on, then, Miss Corrine," he urged, waving a hand for her to follow.

She hesitated for a heartbeat. Harry... Then: "My friends are still below," she said firmly. "I can't leave them."

He nodded. "Very well then," he said. "But you'll have to wait until another steward comes along to lead you up; many passageways are still locked, and you'll get lost right quick if you attempt it on your own." He smiled reassuringly at her. "I'm sure someone else will be down directly, though."

She watched him disappear through the door with his little group. But she knew she couldn't - wouldn't - just stand there, waiting for someone to tell her what to do. It was time to take matters into her own hands.


	14. Chapter 13: Ascent

LoveFiction2020 and Izzykenny, thank you so much for the kind reviews :) And StoriesByRosieAnna: you are a dream come true! I don't even know what to say - I'm completely overcome with your support of the story and #harrine! I never thought anyone would love it as much as you do, and it is my greatest joy to know that you are so invested in it. Readers, Rosie made a cover for the story that is just breathtaking - please check it out, it's a work of art! And if I can figure out how to post images, Rosie made the most beautiful ones of Corrine - and they exactly match her description and the image I had of her in my head. She really brought her to life! Words cannot express my profound gratitude to you, dear :) If you want to see them, please PM me - I don't think I can host them on this site without compromising the new cover image (unless someone knows how to make a banner on FF?).

And now, back to the drama...

* * *

Harold slowly lowered the cutter, watching the millionaire's boat disappear from sight with a mixture of disgust and anger. Only twelve people in this one - and only two were women. All these wasted seats - and so many still below...

Murdoch had already moved aft, to ready the next four boats on the starboard side. The man was possessed of a demonic efficiency; almost too efficient, as the loading of the emergency boat showed. He wanted the boats out, gone as quickly as possible, whether or not they were full; in his mind, there wasn't a moment to spare. He had grimly confided in Harold that they had only about an hour before the ship would disappear beneath the waves.

Apparently, there was some half-arsed plan to load steerage passengers from the gangway doors below, but that wasn't happening. He saw the boats pull away quickly from the ship once they reached the water; they weren't hanging around waiting for instructions, and they certainly weren't taking on more passengers. At that point, it was every man for himself, and those lucky enough to be off the ship were more interested in preserving their own lives than loading the boats to their full capacity and saving as many as possible. That meant that those people belowdecks were likely doomed, unless they could find their way above, and quickly.

His heartbeat quickened. Corrine was still down there, he knew it. She wouldn't be able to find her way up without guidance; the ship was too large, too confusing, and many of the passages led to dead ends or areas cordoned off from steerage passengers. Panic threatened to overtake him; he had to find her... but he had a job to do up here, and he couldn't desert his post.

Or could he? With an effort, he calmed his racing thoughts and considered his options. He knew he had a few minutes before he would be expected to appear at the aft boats; perhaps he had enough time to race down the grand staircase and get to E deck, where she was quartered, before Murdoch noticed he was missing.

Never being a man to linger long on a decision, he was already in motion before he finished outlining his plan. If she wasn't on E deck, he would ask around for her, and check the well deck... maybe, with some luck, he would be able to locate her quickly and load her onto a lifeboat. Her safety was all that mattered to him now.

He passed the last of the empty lifeboat davits without incident, checking around carefully to make sure Murdoch wasn't in sight. He was about to enter the vestibule that led to the grand staircase when a blaring voice from behind pulled him up.

"Mr. Lowe! Where are you going?"

He flinched. It was Boxhall. He didn't think that chap liked him; didn't think he liked anyone, really. He was the captain's pet, a serious, studious sort - even more of a fanatic for rules and protocols than Lightoller. And, he was Harold's senior.

Caught unawares, his mind blank, Harold turned around to face him. Boxhall had been firing rockets from the starboard side all night, trying to get the attention of a ship that appeared tantalizingly close on the horizon. He must have been readying another and happened to look up at just the wrong time, for he still held the friction tube in his hand.

"I say, where are you off to?" Boxhall asked again, suspicion coloring his voice.

"Er... " Hastily, Harold's agile mind worked out an alibi. "I'm going to see that the gangway doors have been opened, to load passengers from below," he lied.

"On whose direction?" Boxhall barked.

Harold lifted his chin. "My own, sir." At least that was the truth.

Boxhall gave him a long look. "Our priority now is loading the boats from this deck, Mr. Lowe. You will stay here and see that it's done. That is your order." He turned on his heel and marched away forward, toward the socket on the rail.

Harold's shoulders slumped in defeat. He would have to find another way to ensure Corrine's safety... but he knew he was rapidly running out of time.

* * *

Corrine pushed her way back down the staircase until she reached E deck. Her friends and the Finnish girls were still there, waiting for her return. Thomas and one of his friends, a shorter man with ginger hair, had joined the group as well. Kate was fingering her rosary beads, her lips moving in silent prayer.

Gently, she put her hand on Kate's. "You can keep praying, Kate, but we have to do more than just wait for salvation. We have to help ourselves now. We're going to go up to the boat deck. And I'm going to find Harry."

"But... what about Godfrey?" Kate asked, confused.

Katie rolled her eyes. "Try to keep up, Kate."

"But how?" one of the Finnish girls, the one who spoke English, asked in a soft voice.

"She's right, Corrine," Kate agreed. "We don't know the way. And one of the men down here told us that some of the gates to the upper decks are still locked." Her forehead was creased with worry.

"I think I know another way," Corrine said slowly. "Come with me. We have to get up to the well deck, and then I'll lead you there."

Katie and Kate agreed instantly; they were used to trusting Corrine's instincts. The Finnish girls, reluctant to be left behind, looked at each other and nodded their agreement as well. Thomas and his friend followed, too, and bringing up the rear was the young Irish lad that Corrine had spoken with in the dining room, the one that had been flooded out of his room. "Name's Danny," he said, nodding at her as they headed back up the staircase leading to the outside. "You're a brave sort, seem to know what's doing, so I'm with you."

They were just starting the long trek back up the stairs when Corrine heard another rocket explode far above them. Her feelings of apprehension and foreboding worsened. The ship was running out of time - and so were they.

* * *

Harold was heading to the aft boats after his abortive attempt to rescue Corrine when, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a large clump of women and children following a steward.

This group was different from the passengers he had been loading all night, though. He noticed their plain clothes and humble bearing and realized that these were third-class passengers, arriving onto the boat deck at last.

Quickly, he scanned the crowd for Corrine's distinctive little form, but she was not there. He blew out a breath of disappointment, and unease rose in his heart. Where was she? And where were the rest of the steerage passengers? He knew there were hundreds still below; were they trapped somewhere, unable to reach the boat deck? Was Corrine one of them?

He strode over to the steward, who seemed to be in charge of the little caravan. "Send them to this one." He gestured to 13 a short distance away, which was being loaded by Murdoch and Moody.

"Yes, sir," the steward replied. He herded them in that direction, where the officers began assisting them into the boat. The steward then turned to leave. "Sir, I'm going down for another load of women and children. Where do you want them?"

"Just bring them up. As long as you fetch them, we'll find room for them," Harold assured him.

The man was heading back toward the grand staircase when inspiration suddenly struck. "Wait!" Harold shouted, jogging after the steward.

The man turned expectantly. "Do you know a Corrine Donnelly?" The words tumbled out of Harold's mouth. "She's a third-class passenger."

The steward smiled. "Why yes, I do - she's one of mine. A right fine lass, too."

Harold ignored this. "Have you seen her tonight?" he demanded.

"Yes, sir, I have," he said. "I saw her down by the third-class stairwell, right as I was taking this lot up." He gestured to the group he had escorted above.

Harold grabbed his arm, ignoring the startled look on the steward's face. "Find her, and bring her up here. Either put her in a boat yourself, or bring her directly to me. Make sure that you do. If you succeed, I'll make sure you get a seat in this one." He pointed to the last boat aft, still covered with canvas.

The man nodded, eyes wide. "I will, sir. Thank you."

Harold released him and went to Moody. "See that that man is put into the next boat to help row." Moody nodded.

For the first time since he had woken up that night, Harold allowed himself to feel a small measure of relief. This man would see to it that Corrine was taken care of - if only to save his own skin. He was just about to help Moody swing the boat out for lowering when he heard his name once again.

"Mr. Lowe!" He turned around to see Chief Officer Wilde striding toward him from the port side, greatcoat flapping. The tall man, normally genial and unruffled, appeared flustered and unnerved. "Mr. Lowe, we need you on the aft port boats - now," he barked. "Some of the passengers are becoming unruly, and there aren't enough of us left over there to keep control of the crowds." He nodded at Moody. "Mr. Moody, when you're finished readying that boat, we'll need you as well."

"Yes, sir," Harold sang out. Wilde rushed away, and Harold turned back around to Moody. "Tell Mr. Murdoch I've gone to help the Chief," he said. His face hardened. "But first, I'm going to get my revolver."

* * *

Corrine led them out to the aft well deck. She was surprised to find groups of men and women here as well. Most looked relaxed, clustered in groups and smoking, chatting, even sipping whiskey on deck, likely obtained from the bar in the smoking room, which glowed brightly and was also fully occupied. She shook her head. No one here seemed to sense the danger they were in, and she didn't have time to warn them. She had to get to Harry.

She headed toward the stairs leading from the well deck to the second-class promenade on B deck. Katie grabbed her arm. "What are you doing, love? We're not allowed up there." She pointed. At the top of the stairs was a gate - the same one that Harry had unlocked days earlier when he came down from A deck to see her.

Corrine set her jaw. "They'll not be keeping us out tonight." She motioned Thomas over. "Can you break down that gate?" she asked tersely.

He nodded, rolling up his sleeves. Corrine followed behind as he ascended the stairs until he reached the top. He took hold of the gate in a firm grip, and then pulled. It was flimsier than she thought it would be, and it tore off the hinges readily. That's strange - it had seemed so substantial the afternoon Harry had come through it, beckoning her to join him in his world...

She shook her head to clear the memories. She needed to stay razor-focused if they were all going to survive the night. Nodding her thanks to Thomas, she motioned for the rest of the group to follow.

They traipsed up the stairs silently, glancing over their shoulders to make sure no crewmembers were going to take them to task for damaging White Star property. With a sigh of relief, they reached the B deck promenade.

It was eerily quiet on this deck. No second-class passengers wandered about, and Corrine wondered if they had already left the ship. She darted back and forth in the dim light, looking for the crew ladder, while the others stood clustered uncertainly around the stairs leading down to the well deck. She was disoriented in the dark, and couldn't quite remember whether Harry had led her to the outside of the ship or closer to the middle that day...

Wait - here it was! With relief, she sighted it further back on the deck, past the crane post and tucked in the corner near the windows of the a la carte restaurant. She waved to her friends, and they silently trooped over until they stood by her side. Katie said what they were all thinking: "We're going up... that?" she asked incredulously, craning her neck to glimpse the top.

Corrine examined the ladder with dread. In the dark, the climb looked even more menacing than when she had done it in broad daylight with Harry. It was difficult to discern the placement of the rungs beyond the first two or three immediately in front of them. She suddenly pictured missing a foothold and slipping, falling to the deck below...

She pushed the panic back; she had a responsibility to her friends, and a mission: to find Harry, no matter the cost. She would make the climb, and she would be brave for her friends.

"Sure," she said easily. "I've already done it once before; safest thing in the world, really. Come," she gestured. To prove she wasn't afraid, she determinedly put her foot on the first rung and began to climb.

As she did, she had a moment to think - and worry - about Harry again. After seeing the flooding in the lower decks and feeling the tilt of the ship grow steadily worse over the last hour, she no longer had any doubts. The Titanic would sink... and he had told her a lifetime ago on their boat deck stroll that there weren't enough lifeboats for everyone on board. Now the call for women and children... she knew what that meant. Men were supposed to step back and die nobly, like gentlemen... and the crew in particular was always expected to go down with the ship. It was the chivalrous thing to do, after all.

As she contemplated it, she suddenly felt sick - and not merely from the dizzying height. She paused, rooted to the spot, petrified with fear for him. Katie nudged her foot from below. "C'mon love, don't stop now. Everyone's behind you."

Katie's reminder that she had people relying on her was enough to bring her back into focus. Resolutely, she continued the treacherous ascent.

Up and up she crept, into the darkness, her hands numb from the cold metal of the rungs and rails. She was almost to the smoking room on A deck when another, more reassuring thought occurred to her. If they needed crewmembers to man the boats... then surely they could use someone with considerable skill, like Harry. She remembered the pride in his voice as he described all the various types of vessels he had sailed, and how he was master of all from a schooner to a liner. She seized onto that possibility with a wild hope. Yes! His expertise might prove to be his salvation! In fact, he might have already escaped; he might be in a lifeboat at this very moment.

But she had to be sure. She wouldn't leave the ship until she knew he was safe.

Where he goes, I go, she vowed to herself as she reached the last rung and hauled herself onto the boat deck.

* * *

Three minutes after Corrine's little group left the staircase, Steward Hart reappeared. "We need more women and children for the boats!" he cried. He was shocked by how many people were still down here - it looked like no other steward but him had brought up anyone from third class at all. But even though more rockets had been fired, and the ship had a pronounced tilt toward the bow, he still had difficulty finding women willing to part with husbands or sons. He was able to gather only around twenty or so. Frustrated, knowing that time was running out, he pulled several more from the crowd and added them to his group, despite their protests. His job was to take care of his passengers and save lives, and he'd be damned if he was going to let these poor souls drown belowdecks.

But there was no sign of Corrine, the little lass that officer had been so desperate to find. That's odd, he thought; she was definitely here earlier. And he had told her to stay put...

"Miss Corrine Donnelly!" he shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth to be heard above the din. "Is Miss Corrine here? I need you to come with me!"

But there was no response, and he realized that he could afford to wait no longer. Regretfully, he turned and led the second group of women and children to the lifeboat that would take them - and him - off of this foundering ship.

* * *

There is discrepancy around when RealLowe went to go get his gun. In his testimony at the American inquiry, he stated that he brought it with him when he first came out onto the boat deck and found himself in the middle of an emergency. Another possibility is that he retrieved it as a way to exercise crowd control after a male passenger jumped into a boat and injured a female passenger during the loading of number 5. Still another suggestion is that he may have gone to get it after lowering boat 1 but before crossing aft to the chaos of boat 14, which may explain the fifteen to twenty minute gap where he was unaccounted for during the sinking. I'm going with the third possibility because it fits my timeline better.

That gate between the third-class well deck and the second-class promenade really existed. At various times during the night it was reported to be either guarded or closed, although at some point it appeared that some passengers were able to get through it, either by permission or when no one was looking. For many, though, it did seem to act as a deterrent to the third-class passengers who were accustomed to being told what to do and thus were waiting patiently for someone to come and get them. It was an ingrained obedience that tragically cost many of them their lives.

Also, Hart testified that he led his first group of steerage passengers up the grand staircase and loaded them into boat 8 (if his account can be trusted at all!); interestingly, there is no record of any third-class passengers in boat 8. There were several in 13, though, and thus that's where they ended up here.

Any Titanic aficionados out there? Ten points to your Hogwarts house for every correctly identified cameo in the last three chapters :)


	15. Chapter 14: Chaos

The coronavirus pandemic and subsequent shutdown of many countries has affected almost everyone in one form or another. For me, separated from work and stuck at home, it's resulted, not surprisingly, in depression. I had decided to put the story on hiatus (although I kept writing), because I thought it might be inappropriate to keep posting when everyone had bigger things to worry about. And who would have time to read my little story anyway? But after a lot of thought, I am going to keep going. For those that don't feel up to reading fanfic right now, I completely understand... and I hope to see you come back to the story someday. But if Corrine and Harry's saga provides anyone even a few moments of escapism, then I want to keep sharing it. If you're still reading, I'd love to hear your thoughts, as always. Until next time, stay safe and healthy, Dear Readers.

Speaking of my Loyal Readers, thank you for your fantastic reviews! And special thanks to Rosie, for also being the most supportive cheerleader and sounding board an author could ever ask for - and for giving me a reason to keep writing :) XOXO

* * *

They had emerged into a scene from hell.

The lifeboats that Corrine had seen sitting peacefully in their davits the other day had been stripped and swung out level with the edge of the boat deck. Ropes were lying uncoiled all over the deck, and crewmembers swarmed about the boats, readying them for lowering and shouting orders to one another. Groups of passengers in lifebelts, some with children, rushed to and fro, or waited near the lifeboats. All looked anxious; by now the tilt of the deck was obvious, and she saw fear and trepidation in many faces. Some ladies stood sobbing, clinging to husbands or brothers as sailors and stewards stepped over the lines and attempted to steer them toward the boats. Other women had to be forcibly pulled from their male companions, and one was lifted bodily away and carried toward a boat, screaming for her husband at the top of her lungs as he waved cheerily at her. But Corrine saw his lip quivering as he turned away, and knew he was putting on a brave front for her sake; his own fate was likely already sealed.

Suddenly, another rocket whooshed overhead, exploding in a deafening bang and raining showers of sparks gently down onto the cold sea. Her friends and companions cried out in alarm. Corrine had held her ears during the detonation, and as she slowly lowered them, she noticed for the first time the cheerful, upbeat strains of ragtime music floating over the bedlam.

The little group stood there in shock, taking it all in. They had seen the confusion and disorder below, but had not anticipated the eerie, reeling madness above. Worse, from her vantage point near the aftmost edge of the deck, which was significantly elevated above the bow, she could see that many davits were already empty.

"Right." She turned to her band of companions as the last person - Danny - emerged from the ladder. "Most of the boats have left already. You'll have to hurry if you want to be in one. Don't waste time, or it'll be too late," she warned ominously.

The Finnish girls moved off at once, but her friends lingered by her side. "Come with us!" Katie begged, pulling at her hand.

Corrine grabbed Katie by her upper arms and spoke urgently. "No. Listen to me. You need to find a boat. I need to find Harry. There's not much time. Go. Hurry!" She pushed Katie and Kate toward the nearest boat and melted back into the crowd, toward the middle of the ship.

Frantic, she turned this way and that, unsure of where to start. Did the officers have assigned boats? Should she ask someone? Her confusion rendered her paralyzed for a moment, and she froze with indecision. People shoved past her, but she barely registered the movement.

She needed to find another officer - surely he would know where Harry was. Oh, where was Mr. Lightoller when she really needed him?! She scanned the deck. To her immense relief, she noticed a sad-eyed officer standing not too far away, loading the last boat on the starboard side.

Pushing aside the crowd blocking her way, she approached him. "Sir!" she called. "Sir, I-"

He grabbed her arm firmly and steered her toward the boat he was loading. "Yes, miss, you should get in this one; I assure you it is perfectly safe." He made to pass her over the edge to a waiting sailor.

"Wait!" she cried. "I'm looking for Harr- Mr. Lowe, I mean," she amended quickly. "Do you know where he's stationed?"

Puzzled but still straining to be polite, he answered, "Miss, he is surely stationed where he needs to be, loading the lifeboats full of women and children. Now please - there is no time to delay." He was trying to be soothing, but his grip on her tightened, and she realized with shock that he was willing to manhandle her into the boat if need be.

No! She would not - could not - leave the ship without finding Harry first; she needed to know he was safe.

She wrenched away from the officer's grip in a sudden movement that caught him off guard. For a heartbeat, she wobbled precariously on the edge of the giant ship, swaying between the deck and the water. She flung herself forward, though, and her equilibrium carried her past the startled officer and beyond the crowd of people still waiting to board, who gasped in her wake.

Suddenly, Steward Hart stood up in the boat she had just leaped from and shouted, "Miss Corrine! There you are! There's an officer been looking everywhere for you! He's on the port side!"

She needed no further prompting. Taking off at a sprint, she flew over the deck, dodging knots of people, who hurriedly scurried out of her way. She rounded the entrance to the second class staircase - and ran straight into a mass of people crowding the port side lifeboats. Compared to the relative calm of the starboard side, this side of the ship was pandemonium. Crowds of people three and four deep, some carrying luggage, were pushing, shouting, and cursing. Adding to the chaos, it appeared that three lifeboats were being loaded simultaneously. Desperately, she stood on her tiptoes and scanned the area, looking for ship's officers. The boat immediately in front of her was being supervised by a tall officer, with assistance from a junior officer. As the junior turned in her direction, she saw with a sinking heart that it was the same one that had checked her ticket - it wasn't Harry.

And then three things happened at once: she heard the unmistakable boom of Lightoller's voice shouting "Lower away!", and then she heard Katie cry, "Corr!", followed closely by Kate's shout: "It's Godfrey!"

She glanced to the right and spotted Lightoller immediately, arms raised, attempting to hold back the crowd. And - there was Harry at last! He was standing in a lifeboat, helping Kate into it, with Katie close behind.

Relief washed over her in a wave so thick that it made her weak. He was going with the boat! He was going to be saved!

Harry forced a smile as he escorted her friends into the boat, and then paused, the color draining from his face. Recognition dawned in his eyes as he realized who they were, and he grabbed Katie's arm, leaning in to bark a question at her.

And as Lightoller turned his head to scream again and the crew began playing out the ropes, she realized the horrible truth. Kate and Katie were to be the last ones in the boat; Lightoller had just given the order to lower it to the sea.

"Harry!" she screamed, and flung herself in the direction of his boat, heedless of the people in her way. She needed to be on that boat - she needed more than anything in the world to be with him right now. "Harry!"

He looked up, and their eyes met. His widened in shock and joy, and then abject terror. "Stop lowering!" he called out to the crew as the boat began its jerky descent downward. "Wait for one more!"

But Lightoller, who was otherwise occupied, didn't see her. "There's no time!" he shouted, pushing a knot of shoving men away from the boat. Corrine was stunned to see the usually cool and calm senior officer so agitated. "The boat has to go now, or these cowards will capsize it!"

"Then I will stay!" Harry called out. With horror, Corrine watched as he grabbed the lip of the deck and began hauling himself up.

"No!" The cry tore out of her as she pushed vainly at the wall of people blocking her. He had to stay on that boat; it might be his only chance to survive.

Lightoller's head snapped around, noticing her at last. Then he turned to his junior incredulously and stared him down. "You will man that boat, Mr. Lowe! That is an order!"

Once again, she could see duty and responsibility warring with his heart. But the choice had already been taken out of his hands. The boat descended, and his tormented eyes disappeared from her sight.

Somehow, in spite of the crush of men, she finally managed to find her way to the edge of the deck. Possibly the sympathetic crewmen, having seen her desperate attempt, had parted the crowd for her.

"Harry!" she screamed again, hanging onto the davit and stretching her arm down in a futile attempt to reach him.

Harry stared up at her, only a few feet below, but steadily pulling away, despair written clearly on his face. Then his eyes filled with a desperate determination. "Listen to me," he said beseechingly to Corrine, and though he spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear, it was as if they were the only two people in the world. "I need you to be brave, do you understand? I need you to jump for me. I promise, I'll catch you. Please, Corrine. Jump."

She looked down. A distance of only a few feet separated Harry's outstretched arms from the yawning blackness of the sea far below. But it didn't matter. In that moment, Corrine knew she would do anything for that man - even overcome her abject terror of heights to throw herself from the edge of a sinking passenger liner. Without thought, without hesitation, she closed her eyes and crouched, ready to spring...

...and felt rough hands on her left arm, yanking her backward to sprawl on the deck, mere inches from the edge.

She looked up and saw Thomas - Thomas! - and the friend that had joined them in their long journey to the boat deck. "If there's room for her, there's room for us!" he growled, and made to leap for the rapidly receding lifeboat.

Strong hands grabbed them both from behind by their collars and threw them bodily onto the deck a few feet away. They quickly scrabbled to their feet and ran toward the bow, apparently unharmed. She looked up and saw Lightoller's face contorted with fury.

Suddenly, she heard three shots, one deck below her, and the roar of Harry's stricken voice: "Stay back, the lot of you! Or I'll shoot you all like dogs!"

Inconsolable, panicked, in a red haze from the wrenching pain in her arm, she crawled to the edge of the deck on her knees and peered over.

Harry stood in the middle of the boat, revolver out, pointing it at the crowds of men on both the boat deck and A deck. The agonized look on his face as he feverishly scanned the faces of the crowd, though, said it all - he was terrified for her safety, and furious at the ones who hurt her and denied her a place in the boat. For one moment, he was not a ship's officer, but an ordinary man, forced to endure an unbearable separation. A small girl's tug on his arm and her plea to not to shoot anyone brought him back to himself, reminding him of who and what he was. He slowly lowered the weapon, put the safety back on, and dropped it in his pocket. All the same, his decorum had been shattered, and he no longer cared what he looked or sounded like as he cupped his hands around his mouth and screamed her name again and again.

"Harry!" she called back, her voice breaking. She slumped over the edge of the boat deck and feebly waved her right arm.

He spotted her at last, and visibly relaxed at seeing her relatively unharmed. "You all right?"

"Yes," she lied, although her left arm hurt like fire when she tried to move it.

The boat continued to drop, and with it, all of Corrine's hopes. It was too late. Thomas and his friend had selfishly stripped her of a place on the boat, and now it was leaving with Harry - and without her.

"Listen to me, Corrine," he called urgently, as every inch of rope increased the distance between them. "You have to find another boat. Right away - find the first boat you can, and get into it. Do not wait. Get off this ship now, Corrine."

She began sobbing, heedless of the crowds, the other passengers on the lifeboat who were now gaping up at her. "What if I can't find one?"

He was rapidly disappearing from sight; the drop was so steep, the sea so far away. But she heard him shout, so clearly that he could have been right next to her: "Then I will come back for you! Do you hear me? I will come back for you, Corrine!"

And even above the din of the boat deck, she heard the boat splash into the sea, many feet below her. At that, she collapsed on the deck and wept, huge sobbing gulps that tore through her and rendered her prone on the still-shiny wooden planks.

* * *

Sara Compton, in boat 14, could not take her eyes off of the young officer's stricken face. Later, she would swear that tears streaked down his cheeks as he stared up at the brightly lit boat deck far above them. The little boat sat in the still, calm water for a minute or two, the other crewmen unsure of what to do next. Without turning around, Officer Lowe said quietly, "Pick up your oars, men. We have to be far enough away from her so that the suction won't pull us down when she sinks." His voice broke on the last word, but no one cared. Without a word, the men lay into the oars. Officer Lowe never moved from his position at the tiller, and as the eerily silent boat began to pull away slowly from the foundering ship, he kept his eyes riveted to the mighty, doomed, Titanic.

* * *

The 'shoot you all like dogs' phrase was actually uttered by Lowe himself, according to several witnesses that night, and not by Lightoller, as the movie portrays.

The theme song for this chapter: When The Party's Over - Billie Eilish


	16. Chapter 15: Adrift

I want to thank all my readers for sticking with me during these challenging times, and for the positive and uplifting reviews. You truly make it all worthwhile!

Sam, thank you for recommending the Murdoch website. I have consulted it many times in the process of writing this story, especially during the chapters where Murdoch appears, as I want to try and depict him as respectfully and accurately as I can. I hope I have done that brave and honorable man justice!

And Rosie - what can I say, besides YOU ARE THE BEST?! Readers, Rosie made an OFFICIAL SCORE for W&S! I can't post links to Youtube unfortunately, but if you type in "Wanderers and Stargazers the Official Score" it should come right up. These are themes that she selected for Harry and Corrine, and for all of the key events in the story so far. And they fit PERFECTLY! I hope you all check it out, and enjoy as you read! I also want to mention that Rosie wrote an absolutely beautiful and moving #harrine short that I hope someday she publishes on FF (hint hint haha) - it really captures the essence of this couple!

This is a wee angsty chapter, so without further ado...

* * *

Corrine was still sobbing when she felt a hand shaking her right shoulder.

"Miss Donnelly, you have to get up now," said a familiar voice. She wiped her tear-filled eyes and peered up through her curtain of hair to see Lightoller looking down at her. "Come, you must find another boat, and soon. I fear you are almost out of time."

The sympathy in his eyes almost brought her to tears all over again. She knew that he had witnessed the dramatic parting scene with Harry, and from his gentle demeanor, even in the face of such great urgency, he must have realized that his warnings a few days prior had fallen on deaf ears. She only hoped he realized now that he had been wrong about Harry, too.

Dazed, she sat up and looked around. The deck, which had been packed with passengers and crew just a few minutes ago, was now almost entirely empty, at least in the vicinity of the lifeboat davits. She saw that in addition to Harry's boat, 14, the other two boats nearby, 12 and 16, had left as well, and number 10 was being lowered as she watched. She didn't see any more boats left on the port side of the boat deck.

"Miss Donnelly," Lightoller said again, more insistent this time.

She nodded at him to show she had heard. "I'll be along directly," she croaked, her voice still broken from sobbing.

He looked skeptical, but nodded. A crewmember's head appeared at the bottom of the crew stairs. "Mr. Lightoller!" he shouted. "They need you for number 4, sir - now!"

He hesitated, and she could see that he was reluctant to leave her alone. She waved him off weakly, and he finally acquiesced. "I have a boat to load from A deck. I will make sure you have a place in it. Now hurry, please." And he flew down the steps, hard on the heels of the other crewmember.

Slowly, she climbed to her feet. At least the noise from the rockets had finally stopped. But the deck was even more unsteady under her feet than it had been before. She could definitely feel a downward slant to it, tipping her toward the bow. Still in a state of shock, in no particular hurry, and curious, she made her way in that direction. Lightoller's pleas to head to A deck had already been forgotten.

* * *

Esther Hart was impressed. One hundred fifty feet away from the giant liner, Officer Lowe was tying their boat up to numbers 10 and 12. It had taken about ten minutes for him to pull himself together after the boat left the Titanic, during which the occupants sat silently, watching the ship founder and wonder what was to become of them. She supposed he had needed that time to compose himself. There had apparently been a girl... some drama during the lifeboat launch... and she gathered by his reaction that the young officer had some feelings for this girl. Tragic, yes, but many women on the boat had also left loved ones behind, Esther included. Now was not the time to mourn; now it was time to survive. He must have come to the same conclusion, because after a time his competence won over his grief. He bade the rowers to lay on the oars and began scrabbling in the bottom of the boat. No one knew quite what he was about until he produced a mast and sail, which he began assembling with obvious familiarity. Once that task was complete, he hallooed to a nearby boat that had been launched around the same time as theirs. He ordered the boat to his, and while that one was rowing toward them, he hailed another. Soon he had a mini flotilla arranged in the open sea. "Consider yourselves all under my command," he ordered gruffly, and set about rearranging crewmembers and passengers to maximize efficiency and comfort in the boats. Esther held tight to her little girl, reassured that she was in the best possible hands. The young officer's manner might be abrupt, and a bit rough, but his authority, his obvious knowledge of boats and the sea, comforted her immensely. And although he was completely absorbed in the work, she saw the naked anguish in his gaze every time he looked back at the ship...

* * *

Corrine found herself wandering aimlessly, with no destination in mind. At some point, she crossed over to the starboard side, but had no memory of doing so. The ship was listing to port now, and people were beginning to move past her in the opposite direction, to the stern. So she had a clear view of the bow, where crewmembers were still struggling to load two lifeboats into the davits.

Those must be the collapsibles Harry mentioned on our boat deck tour, she thought absently. Seeing no other lifeboats in the area, she stood by passively and watched the men winch the starboard boat into place.

Suddenly, from out of nowhere, a group of men rushed the boat. The crewmembers, cursing and shouting, beat them back, but there were too many - and their fear had made them desperate. A few leaped into the boat, but they were quickly thrown out by two well-dressed men, who had materialized from the crowd to help the crew. Someone fired a gun twice, and she covered her ears, remembering Harry's previous warning shots. But it had the desired effect, and the crowd quieted. Some of the crew then began rounding up women and children, while the rest maintained order around the boat.

An officer - the same one who had tried to put her in the lifeboat earlier, she noted with detachment - appeared at her side and bustled her toward the boat. She didn't resist, and she was soon escorted over the bulwark rail and into the small collapsible. It was already nearly filled, mostly with women and children, although a few men were occupying seats as well. She sat down gratefully next to a weeping woman wearing only a nightgown and an overcoat carelessly thrown over her shoulders. Corrine was exhausted from her emotional and physical ordeal. Her left arm still throbbed from Thomas's brutal assault, but she was grateful that she had been able to fulfill Harry's request at least - she had indeed found a place in another boat.

She looked past the officers loading the boat to the dimly-lit deck beyond. A commotion about twenty feet away caught her eye. It was a woman in a headscarf with two small children clinging tightly to her skirts. She was gesturing wildly, but the crewmember nearest her was either ignoring her, or couldn't understand what she was saying. Desperate, she pulled on his arm, but he brushed her off and strode toward the boat.

The woman locked eyes with Corrine, and the hopelessness and dread in her face awoke Corrine at last from her fugue state. She stood up and waved her arm, trying to catch the attention of the officer in front of her, but he was looking elsewhere. She looked back at the family, and saw the smallest boy - he must have been only around four or five - start to cry and tug on his mother. Oh, his dear little face - he reminded her of her neighbor's oldest son, back in Southampton...

She would never be able to live with herself if she sat there and did nothing, knowing that this family would be left here to drown. Corrine tried once more to signal, to tell the men to wait, but the officers were barking orders, preparing the boat for lowering - and her fellow passengers were beginning to grumble angrily, motioning for her to sit down.

She had only seconds to do something - anything - to save this family.

And so for the second time that night, Corrine found herself leaping out of the source of her salvation and into an uncertain future.

She hit the deck and pushed through the wall of men, spun on her heel, and shouted, "One more! Hold for one more!" She reached the woman, who was cradling her youngest boy, and grabbed her by the arm. "I don't know if you can understand me," she said as slowly and calmly as she could, "but I am going to get you into that boat. All right?"

The woman stared at her uncomprehendingly, but nodded anyway. She meekly allowed Corrine to push her and her older son back through the crowd.

The sad-faced officer was already calling for the boat to be lowered when she returned with the woman and her children. The woman was quickly swung aboard, child still nestled in her arms, and Corrine heaved the other boy over to her as well. They huddled in the bow of the boat, the mother kissing her children's heads. She looked at Corrine, tears in her eyes, and nodded - the only way she could convey her gratitude.

As the boat was dropping from the level of the deck, she realized belatedly that she should be on it. She stepped up, one foot on the rail, prepared to grab the rope with her good arm and swing herself into her previous seat before it was too late.

But the shock she felt next eclipsed everything else she had experienced, even on this unbelievable, awful night.

Sitting in her seat was the man that had hounded her at her uncle's store so many months ago. They stared at one another, shock and recognition dawning simultaneously.

Her mouth agape, she watched J. Bruce Ismay, Managing Director of the White Star Line, descend in the last lifeboat.


	17. Chapter 16: Descent

Hello Dear Readers! Thank you for your patience; I edited this chapter far more than I probably should've, haha, but it's finally done.

To anyone that may have been wondering about the Ismay/Corrine connection mentioned at the end of the last chapter, I alluded to it in the very first chapter, 'The Key'; he was the 'thin, tall' man with the 'well-groomed handlebar moustache' who had sought her out at her uncle's store and offered her a job - 'and most assuredly was not referring to a secretary's job'. Hee hee.

Thank you once again to everyone who has reviewed my little story. I appreciate your kindness and support so much more than I can say, now more than ever. I hate to be greedy, but keep 'em coming :) I would particularly love to hear what you think at the end of this chapter - because we've finally reached our beautiful Titanic's death throes :(

* * *

The officer took hold of Corrine's arm and helped her back down to the boat deck. He didn't say a word, but his eyes shone with sympathy for her hopeless plight.

"Mr. Murdoch!" At the urgent call, they both turned around. The young officer she had seen loading the boat next to Harry's was gesturing wildly, his blue eyes frantic. "We need your help with the collapsible on the officer's quarters, sir!"

Murdoch let go of her arm and ran off after him, throwing her one last apologetic look as he went. As she watched them move through the crowd together, she spared a worried thought for the young man, wondering why he was still on the ship. Weren't all the junior officers supposed to be manning the lifeboats, like Harry? She hoped he would be able to find a way off soon.

But was there another way? She looked around quickly. All of the lifeboats - including both collapsibles - appeared to be gone. The crews who had launched them had moved off somewhere else; she didn't see many people left at this end of the ship. The slant of the deck was so steep now that Corrine had a hard time keeping her footing. Any minute now and the boat deck might go under and into the sea, dumping her in the icy water.

She had to do something. She couldn't just stand here and wait to die. Should she jump for it? Maybe she could swim out to one of the lifeboats she was sure had to be waiting nearby. The water here was so close that she could practically step off the deck; the impact would be minimal at this height. She rushed back over the bridge to the port side, since the ship was listing that way and the water would be even nearer. She looked down at the short drop to the icy sea, which glowed eerily green in the lights from the submerged lower decks.

As she stood there, trying to summon her courage for the jump, a man ran from behind her and flew into the water, landing several yards away from the ship. Although he had not leaped from a great height, his subsequent screams chilled her to her bones. She watched for several minutes as the man suffered, his cries gradually quieting, until she turned away in shock and sorrow.

No, she couldn't do it; she couldn't throw herself into the sea. Shuddering from the horror of what she had seen, she turned toward the stern. To her utter disbelief, it was slowly rising out of the water, like some behemoth out of a nightmare. Panicked groups of people ran headlong up the steep incline of the still-lit decks, screaming for help, for a salvation that wouldn't come. For the first time that night, she considered the very real possibility that she could die, and panic welled up in her throat.

She knew her only hope lay in staying dry. A plunge in that water would quickly prove fatal, and she had seen first-hand the suffering that she would endure. She might only prolong her life by minutes, but her instinct for survival overrode her common sense. She began running as well, fighting gravity to try and reach the stern. Maybe... if she were lucky... at that height, she might catch a glimpse of the lifeboats and reassure herself that Harry was safe before she died.

She saw a clump of men gathered around a structure just before the first funnel. Dodging the group, she darted to the right-

\- and crashed headlong into Lightoller.

The force of the encounter knocked her to the deck. He loomed over her, staring at her in disbelief, sweat dripping down his forehead and pattering on the deck beside her. Quickly, he helped her back to her feet. "Miss Donnelly," he shouted angrily in her face, grabbing her shoulders, "why are you still here?"

There was no time to explain. "Mr. Lightoller, is there any other way off this ship?" Her eyes pleaded with him for a different answer than the one she already knew.

He shook his head, regret in his eyes. "No, lass," he said. "I'm sorry. The only things left are these damn collapsibles, and we don't even have the proper equipment to get them off the roof, let alone launch them." He waved his hand above him, where several men were scrambling around, trying to free the lashes holding the boat in place. They shouted for his help, and in one smooth motion, he vaulted to the top of the roof and set to the ropes.

Frantically sawing on the bindings with a penknife, he looked down at her, and Corrine saw in his eyes the realization of his own doom. Then he glanced over his shoulder. His brow furrowing, he looked behind himself again as if he were double-checking something, and turned back to her. "Miss Donnelly, listen to me! You have to get over to the starboard side!" he shouted urgently. "Mr. Murdoch is trying like hell to get a collapsible in the davits over there. If he succeeds, you might stand a chance!"

Before he had even finished speaking, her body was in motion. But as she turned to race back toward the bow, she discovered that the sea was already surging over the forward part of the boat deck, engulfing the bridge. Her heart leaped into her throat as realized she was trapped - her only way over to the starboard side was now under water. But more than that, it meant that the end of this magnificent ship - and her own life - was very, very near.

Men near her cursed and kicked futilely at the waves roiling toward them. She looked up helplessly at Lightoller, who screamed, "Give me your hand!" Slipping the knife between his teeth, he reached down to her.

Without hesitation, she grabbed his outstretched hand, and he pulled her up, flinging her past him on the roof. She stumbled once, almost slid headlong down the roof and into the water, but somehow regained her balance. Lightoller was still working on freeing the boat when she took off, half-crawling, half-running around the front of the massive first funnel and over the roof of the slanting building.

She reached the edge of the roof and looked down to the deck. She saw Murdoch and the junior officer pushing desperately at the boat, fighting gravity to try and raise it to the davits. The sight of their struggles, against all odds, hurt her heart. No matter how hard they tried, they were already too late. She could see now that there was no salvation here, any more than there was on the port side.

Suddenly, the roof below her dipped sharply. Clinging to the roof edge, she looked down and saw that a giant wave had swept up the front end of the boat deck, submerging the wheelhouse completely. It was over. The mighty ship was in her death throes... and soon Corrine would join her. She spared one last glimpse over her shoulder, in the direction she knew Harry's lifeboat had gone. Goodbye, she whispered silently. I love you.

She took a deep breath and leaped off the roof into the roiling, freezing water.

* * *

The band had finally stopped playing.

Sara Compton supposed the slant of the deck was now too steep for the men to stand. But the sudden silence was the reason she - and everyone else around her - was able to hear the officer's whistle so clearly as he signaled to the overloaded little collapsible struggling toward them.

He coordinated his own flotilla to meet them halfway, and soon the boat had tied up with the rest.

"Right - is everybody all right?" he called out to the occupants. "Don't worry," he reassured them. "You're tied up fast, nice and tight." Some nodded, but most just sat weeping, staring at him, or back at the ship tilting slowly toward the sky. He then rose from his position at the stern of boat 14 and made his way toward the new addition.

He greeted every new boat he had gathered to him in the same manner: carefully assessing each passenger, eyes roaming over every face aboard. It seemed like he was waiting... waiting for something he wasn't finding, because the disappointment was clearly visible in his face. And each time he had finished and returned to whatever task he was attending, his expression became graver - and more troubled.

She knew how it felt to wait for someone who was never going to come. Her brother Alex hadn't been allowed into the boat. For him - and for all those other poor souls still on the ship - the end was very near.

* * *

The water burned like flames, and brought a pain beyond comprehending.

For a time, the unbearable cold shut off the part of her brain that told her lungs to keep breathing. She thought for a long panicked moment that she might die like that, drowning above water, unable to take a breath. Finally - finally - she was able to gasp in a bit of air, but the pain in her chest, her arms, on every inch of her skin, continued unabated. Every moment was a torment. Her legs were completely numb; she couldn't feel them at all. Desperately, she tried to move her arms, her unfeeling legs... anything, to keep herself alive. Her lifebelt buoyed her, but it wasn't going to be enough to save her life. She had to move, or she'd freeze to death in minutes.

From the splashing coming from all around her, she knew that others were doing the same. Through intense concentration, she managed to get her frozen limbs to start moving. At first she was just flailing, thrashing the water ineffectually, but soon she felt some feeling return to her arms. With it came cold tingling fire - and the throb in her left shoulder - but at least she could feel something. Her strength and resolve returned slowly, and she leaned forward, using her good arm and her frozen legs to propel herself through the water.

Suddenly, she felt a sharp yank on her lifebelt that very nearly pulled her head underwater. She was spun around by rough hands, which then began fumbling at the straps on her belt. She tried to kick the man off of her, but her numb legs refused to move. She tried to scream, but terror clogged her throat.

He had loosened one strap already. She looked into his desperate eyes, full of pain and fear, and knew his strength and instinct for survival would win out - he would have her lifebelt off in a matter of seconds, and she would die, unable to defend herself or even to stay afloat.

A heavy blow, and the man's fingers on her lifebelt loosened. She watched, curiously impassive, as he fell back into the sea and sank out of sight.

Then she was being propelled through the water somehow. She only knew because the water around her moved; she couldn't feel a thing. "Swim, dammit," she heard a male voice rasp in her ear.

She wanted nothing more than to just float there nervelessly, to give up and let death take her. That was going to be the end result anyway, wasn't it? Weakly, she shook her head at whoever was annoying her. Go away, she thought. Just let me die.

"Live!" the voice grated again. He shoved her hard.

Anger flared in her chest - weak, but still there, still flickering. Who did this man think he was, ordering her about? Why, even her own father couldn't talk to her that way - that's why she had run away to her uncle in the first place! Past and present were merging in her head as she swung around to her da to give him a piece of her mind... but instead, she saw Mr. Murdoch, the senior officer she had crossed paths with all night. His lips were blue with cold, and his hair laced with ice, but he was still doing his duty to the very end - he was seeing to his passengers' needs.

She wanted to thank him, to apologize, but he had already moved off to another woman in the water. Behind him, he saw the junior officer doing the same, shouting at two keening women and gesturing emphatically. She realized that the officers were trying to get them to swim, to go to... something floating a few feet beyond them in the dark. It was... yes! It was the collapsible she had seen them wrestling with on the deck earlier, right before the bridge went under! Hope flared in her chest. The boat represented salvation... a second chance at life. She had to reach it.

Others apparently had the same idea. They swarmed the boat, the strongest swimmers reaching it first and hauling themselves over the gunwales.

"Women first!" she heard Murdoch shout. Even in the midst of turmoil, pain, and death, he was still doing his best to restore order and chivalry. Once again, her heart cracked for this brave and honorable man. And she needed to make certain that his efforts toward her had not been in vain. Slowly, painfully, she began to swim toward the swamped craft.

As she swam, her strength steadily increased. Moving her limbs, having a purpose, was revitalizing her. She reached the boat at last. She grabbed the gunwale with her right hand, trying to pull herself up... and slipped from the side, her numb fingers losing their grip. She tried again, but her left arm still refused to function, and her right could not gain purchase for long. She slipped back into the sea for a second time.

So close, and yet so far. She bobbed in the water for a time, trying to muster up enough energy to try again. This time, she knew the decision was up to her. Everyone had done everything they could for her. Now it was her turn to decide if her will to live, to see Harry again, was strong enough. Was it going to be life, or death?

There was never any doubt - she'd die trying at least. With a mighty heave and the last of her strength, she threw her body at the boat, at the last minute catching her lifebelt on the gunwale. Half rolling, half flipping, she flung herself inside.

Exhausted, beyond cold, she lay panting in the bottom of the boat. Others began piling on top of her, lying across her numb legs, splashing frigid water into her face.

* * *

The stern was rising, higher and higher. The lights flickered once, and then went out forever. But the occupants of the lifeboats could all still see the outline of the ship, blacker than black against the stars.

A series of explosions, deep and reverberating, cut through the silent night. Esther Hart covered her daughter's ears as she watched in fascinated horror the final moments of the once-magnificent ship. It rose almost perpendicular to the sky, and seemed to hover there for a moment, suspended in time. Then a terrible crack, a shattering of the fabric of the night, and the stern seemed to right itself. For a moment, a split second, she thought it might float, and all those people left on the ship would be saved... then, with a sickening turn, the stern, too, began to upend and slowly disappear from sight. Within a minute, the monstrous hulk slid into the sea, never to return.

All around her, women sobbed and wailed for their missing loved ones and the terrible loss of life. She looked at the officer in charge of their flotilla. He had turned away from the devastation and closed his eyes, his face a mask of excruciating pain.

* * *

They had capsized again.

The boat, unstable to begin with, was constantly in danger of dumping its occupants in the sea. Each time fewer and fewer people were able to drag themselves back inside.

The toppling of the first funnel had almost killed them all. Corrine, who was lying at the bottom underneath several men, had had enough presence of mind to look up just as the enormous structure was collapsing in a rending shriek and a shower of sparks. She squeezed her eyes shut, sure it was going to crush them beneath it. But to her surprise, it splashed down mere feet away, creating an enormous wave that swept their boat away from the ship, but tipped it dangerously close to overturning as well.

Her position on the bottom proved to be fortuitous. The men on top of her were washed out, but the little boat soon righted itself, buoyed by its cork lining. She had managed to stay inside by clinging to a thwart, and she now pulled herself to a sitting position as people scrambled back into the boat. For every one person that fumbled their way to safety, two others foundered right beside, grasping at the gunwales but unable to gather the strength to tumble inside.

She was too preoccupied with trying to remain in the boat to notice the ship had disappeared until someone whispered beside her, "She's gone." Miserably, she raised her head, and saw nothing but the black night - and hundreds of swimmers, some with lifebelts on, some without, all struggling to survive, screaming... praying... crying... moaning.

She put her hands over her ears to muffle the sounds and squeezed her eyes shut tightly as tears trickled out from beneath her eyelids. The suffering around her was unbearable, so much so that she thought briefly of throwing herself overboard to make room for someone else, and to end the agonizing guilt she felt at having found a relatively stable haven in the middle of this sea of misery.

And then the boat was pulled under again. She was pitched out, back into the frigid water... and found that she wanted to live, after all.

By then they had drifted to the edge of the packed crowd, and she was able to swim back to the boat unimpeded. Having figured out earlier that her best chance of success lay in throwing herself at the boat with all her strength, she rested in the water for a minute, conserving her energy and begging her pain-wracked body to endure just a little while longer. Then, with a tremendous kick, she hauled herself upward and thrashed until her upper torso was over the gunwale.

"We ain't got no more room," a man protested feebly, trying to shove her away.

"Sod off, you wanker, she's a lady," another retorted, teeth chattering.

I'm no lady, she thought automatically, then felt a pang of longing twist inside her as she thought of Harry. A third man took pity on her, grabbing her lifebelt and pulling her body into the boat. She swung her legs up and around, and landed on the man with a soft thump.

He grunted and pushed her off of him, but it was done: she was inside at last. Chest heaving with exertion, sodden clothes freezing to her body, she struggled in vain to recover from the plunge in the frigid water, lying back on an unoccupied thwart.

Her face tilted to the heavens. Unbidden, the memory of the night before washed over her: Harry, his arms around her, pointing out the stars, showing her his favorite. "Alnilam," she whispered, searching for it in the black sky. But she couldn't find it - it had already receded into the horizon. It was gone - just like that magical night... just like Harry. Oh, if only she had known how it would end... she would have held on a little tighter... made it last a little longer. She choked back a sob at the thought of everything that had been lost forever, and her heart - the only part of her body she could still feel - shattered in her chest.

As the overloaded boat wallowed almost at the level of the water, she lay there shivering, wishing with all of her broken heart for the one thing left anchoring her to this world. "Harry..." she mumbled, unaware that she was calling his name out loud. Please come, she begged silently. Please find me.

After a short time, the swimmers stopped coming to the boat. Soon, all too soon, the swamped craft drifted purposeless in a silent, uncaring sea.

* * *

Murdoch did not commit suicide in my version of the sinking. I know there is significant circumstantial evidence suggesting that an officer shot himself that night, and many people attribute that action to Murdoch... but I prefer to think of him dying the way he lived, doing his duty to the end. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Song inspiration: If I Die Young - The Band Perry


	18. Chapter 17: Darkness

Welcome back, Dear Readers (or should I call you Lowe's Flotilla? Haha!). I appreciate each and every one of you, and I cherish your reviews; whether you are a long-time reader, a guest, or new to the story, your thoughts and your support are SO IMPORTANT to me! THANK YOU once again for your interest in my story; I just can't say it enough!

This chapter may be a little frustrating (you'll see what I mean soon enough), but hang in there, please... :)

Oh, and be sure to check out Rosie's updated Wanderers and Stargazers - The Official Score on Youtube; she's added two new beautiful and haunting songs that really encapsulate the last few desperate moments of Titanic; they give me CHILLS every time I listen!

* * *

Clear Cameron had been trying to comfort the weeping Irish girl next to her for nearly an hour, well before the ship had disappeared into the sea. She was inconsolable, first wailing hysterically and then dissolving in a never-ending puddle of tears. Between fresh bursts of sobs, Clear was able to deduce that her best friend had been left behind on the ship. Worse, the man this girl - Katie - had been romancing aboard the ship was the one responsible; he had pushed her away from their boat as she was about to jump in. Poor Katie alternated between devastation and self-hatred at bringing such a curse down upon her friend. Sympathetically, Clear patted the girl's hand. "It's not your fault," she said soothingly. "And I'm sure your friend was able to find another boat."

"You don't know her!" the girl howled. "She's probably running around putting babies into boats rather than taking a seat for herself. She'll die up there without me!"

"Corrine can take care of herself," declared her friend Kate on the other side of her. She, too, had been trying to comfort Katie, to no avail. "You know she'll find a way... because..." she gestured with her head behind her.

She looked up. That officer was staring at them again, his dark eyes unreadable in the black night. But she knew he was listening closely. Between the many tasks he was trying to complete - tying up boats, organizing supplies, reassuring frightened passengers, calling out orders to crewmembers - he had still found time to pay attention to the drama at the other end of his boat.

Katie grabbed Kate's arm with surprising strength. "But the tea leaves," she whispered.

"What?" Clear asked, bewildered.

Kate turned to her, sighing. "Katie believes in reading tea leaves-"

"They always tell the truth!" Katie interrupted.

"-And she read Corrine's one day after afternoon tea on the ship. She didn't tell her, because she'd already left the dining room-"

"But they predicted that Corrine would die soon," Katie finished miserably.

Clear shook her head. "Superstition, is all," she reassured Katie. Kate nodded in agreement.

But Katie refused to be consoled. "She was still on that ship," she whispered. "I know it in my heart. She never found another boat. She'll die in the freezing water, all alone..." It was too much to bear, and she broke down in tears again. Even Kate was beginning to look distressed, as if she too knew that Katie was right.

Then Clear saw the officer shift his position at the tiller.

Something in his demeanor had changed. It was as if he had been waiting for confirmation of something that he now knew. He stood up straighter, and in the glow of his electric torch, she saw steely determination in the set of his jaw.

The pieces fell together in her mind at last. Why, he was in love with the missing girl, she realized with wonder. He cared for nothing and no one but her. And he was not going to let her die out there alone. Somehow, he was going to find a way to save her.

With a sliver of jealousy, she hoped that she would someday find a man that would love her the way this officer loved his girl.

* * *

Daisy Minahan disliked the young officer intensely.

Ever since she had boarded his boat, he had been ordering people around. Stay back, he shouted to those on deck. Take that oar, he ordered a crewman. Get off the mast, he growled at a lady. His manners were atrocious, his movements abrupt, his tone offensive.

It was enough to rattle even the stoutest heart, and hers was decidedly not in that category.

Daisy was a child of Irish immigrants, a fact that she desperately tried to hide. As a socialite in Wisconsin, she was a big fish in a small pond, but she was new money, and painfully conscious of her precarious social standing. She hadn't even wanted to return to her ancestral homeland - she didn't want to be reminded at all of where she came from, and she feared what other, more pedigreed people might say if they heard where she was to travel. Only her beloved brother's constant pleadings had convinced her to take the trip with him. Once there, though, she found it entirely displeasing - as she had expected. She faked an illness and insisted on returning to Wisconsin at once. She wanted nothing more to do with her family's humble past; she wanted only to look forward to her future.

Although she gamely (and insincerely) protested that she could last just a little while longer in Ireland, she couldn't have been more thrilled when her brother booked them a first-class cabin on Titanic as a consolation prize for having to cut short their trip. Not only was she coming home early, she was coming home in style. On this trip, she had had a chance to rub elbows with the likes of the Thayers and the Wideners. She basked in the joy of name-dropping, of polite conversation and scandalous gossip. She was in her element - she belonged at last.

That delightful interlude ended abruptly when the ship hit an iceberg.

They were awakened suddenly in the middle of the night by a sharp knock at their door and a demand that they dress and report to the boat deck. A steward fastened a lifebelt over her new velvet cape with the fur trim. The crew rushed them about, telling them to go here or there. It was all so confusing, and disconcerting. She didn't see any of her friends from the dinner party earlier. She wondered if they had already left on the forward lifeboats, which she assumed were reserved for the richest and most famous passengers.

And then she was manhandled into one of the little boats, with her sister-in-law - but without the brother she adored. The officer helping to load the boat - the same one who now dictated their fate - told her curtly that no men were permitted to board, and that was that. No amount of pleading, cajoling, or demanding would make it otherwise. She watched William sadly from her seat as he threw her and his wife a kiss.

The descent was drama-filled, but she hardly cared, so caught up in misery was she at her own predicament. It wasn't until they hit the water and started to row away from the ship that the officer's true colors were revealed.

Oh, he was a sailor all right: crude, nasty, vicious, hardhearted - in short, not a proper gentleman at all. He hailed other boats and tied them to his, ordering the passengers to obey his commands. He barked instructions at the other men, seemingly unaware of the impression he was making on the ladies in earshot. He put up a mast, for goodness sake - whatever did he think he was going to do with that? - and told the men to give him their matches. Why, he acted for all the world like he was the lord of the sea! He seemed to be everywhere at once, which annoyed Daisy, as she just wanted him to sit down quietly and act civilized.

And then, his ridiculous idea to return to the scene of the sinking...! Why, they would all be swamped, dumped into the icy water themselves, and left to die! Several women, including Daisy, strongly and loudly protested the idea, and he growled at them to "shut up." His rudeness shocked her into silence, whereupon he sat for a moment, thinking. A short time later, he announced that he would rearrange the occupants of his 'flotilla', as he called it, into four boats, and take the fifth back with a handpicked crew to pick up those unfortunates in the water.

She supposed it was noble enough - after all, he would only be risking himself and his crew, not the ladies - but leaping from boat to boat in the middle of the night, in the Atlantic ocean? It sounded insane - and terrifying.

But no one had the nerve to argue with him. After the ship disappeared and the screaming started, he seemed frantic, nearly out of control. His wild eyes flicked back and forth constantly from the water, to the boats filled with weeping women and children.

"We have to go back! Make some room!" he demanded in that atrocious accent of his. Reluctantly, the passengers obeyed. Soon it was her turn. But she hesitated. What if her foot slipped? She might end up in the water, too! Oh, it was definitely safer to stay in the boat she was already in. She was sure she could convince the crew...

"Jump, God damn you, jump!" the officer roared at her, his voice full of frustration laced with panic.

She looked at him in disbelief, eyes narrowing in hatred. If there was one thing Daisy despised, it was strong language. It spoke of ill-breeding, humble origins, working class men... in short, everything she had disdained all her life. How dare he speak to her like that?!

As she jumped, she thought about how there would definitely be a reckoning for this terrible man once they reached New York.

* * *

In just a few seconds, Daniel Buckley was going to be in a world of trouble.

He had followed that plucky Irish lass up the forbidden steps to the second class promenade, then climbed the crew ladder, bringing up the rear of their small party. Once on the boat deck, though, he had lost track of the leader - Corrine - and had followed the other girls to the port side. Their party was quickly separated in the mayhem of loading and launching the boats there - the Finnish girls took the boat furthest to the stern, while the Irish girls got in the one with the loud officer, Lowe. Just before they hopped on, though, one of them threw her shawl over his head. "They're not letting men in," she whispered, "but you're somebody's son." So he was bundled into the boat along with the women.

He had kept his head down most of the night. Now, though, the officer had decided to play musical chairs with the passengers in the five lifeboats he had tied up. And he would soon discover that one of his 'women' was just a scared Irish lad.

Sure enough, when it was his turn to jump into another boat, the shawl slipped from his head. He turned around to the officer's furious eyes. Without preamble, the man picked Daniel up by the collar and the seat of his pants and threw him into the nearest boat, the one in which the two Irish girls now sat.

Daniel knew he was lucky the officer didn't toss him overboard; he surely didn't approve of his ruse, but he was preoccupied with moving other passengers. He barely spared Daniel a glance, other to admonish him sternly: "You'd better make the most of the life I'm letting you keep."

Daniel decided that he would, at that. He turned toward the kind girl who had offered him her shawl. She was quieter and more plain than her flamboyant friend, but he decided he liked that better. He gently touched her arm. "Thank you, miss," he said softly. "I'd be struggling for my life out there like the rest if it wasn't for you."

She smiled timidly at him. He decided he liked that smile, too - quite a lot, actually. "I'm Danny," he said, offering her his hand.

"Nice to make your acquaintance, Danny. My name is Kate."

* * *

Fang Lang bobbed on a half-submerged door and waited to die.

He was sure it wouldn't be long now. He had managed to lash himself to the door right before the ship sank. He knew that as a foreigner, and a third-class traveler - a man, at that - he stood no chance of finding a place in a lifeboat. But he was a sailor, on his way to America to join a shipping company there, and resourceful; he had enough experience with the sea to realize that the only way to survive in this frigid water would be to create a sort of makeshift raft for himself, and that was what he had done. But the icy water defied his futile efforts, and now, despite surviving far longer than most, he knew he was not going to live much longer - maybe a few more minutes, fifteen at most. There was just too much of his body in contact with the sea, and it was slowly leaching away his heat, energy... and will to live. He sighed and lay back on the door, waiting for the inevitable, and hoping that it would be relatively painless at the end.

But now - what was that noise?

It had been utterly silent out in this wasteland since the screaming stopped. Bodies bobbed everywhere around him, bumping into the door, but they were all dead. There was nothing left moving out here... nothing but him - and this new sound. It was... a man, shouting.

"-alive out there?" he heard, as if from a long distance away.

Then came the sound of oars splashing the water. He thought at first it was his imagination. There were no boats here; this was the dead zone, and the living had abandoned it. No one was going to come back for him; no one would save him. And yet...

"Is there anyone alive out there?"

It came again, that call, and then a beam as bright as a lighthouse lamp swept over him. Fang tried to sit up, but the movement unbalanced the door, so he lay back down and began waving his arms furiously, shouting as loudly as he could in a voice made hoarse with cold.

Turning his head, he saw the men in the boat catch sight of him and begin slowly maneuvering his way. It seemed to take forever, and Fang wondered if they would make it before he expired, but soon the boat was gently jostling the side of his small raft.

A member of the boat's crew shined his light in Fang's face, then groaned. "It's a Jap!" he said in disgust.

"I don't care," another growled, and Fang raised his head enough to see that it was a ship's officer. "Pull him in. We will save everyone we can."

Someone cut the lashings holding Fang to the door. Rough hands seized him, and he was dropped unceremoniously into the bottom of the boat. A sailor laid a blanket over his shoulders, and for a time, he shivered miserably. Then, seized by a sudden urge to move, to prove himself, he sat up and pushed aside one of the crew, who grunted but made way for him. Grabbing an oar, he rowed with the others, earning a nod of approval and thanks from the officer.

His seat was near the officer, who was at the tiller. He stood with one hand cupped over his mouth and the other holding the electric torch that he trained over the frozen bodies bobbing in the waves from the boat's movement. "Is there anyone alive out there?" the officer continued to call, over and over.

He turned back to his crew, who were watching carefully for movement in the still mass. "Holler if you see a woman - any at all," he told them firmly. "Alive... or dead." His voice cracked on the last word.

Sitting beside him at the oar, Fang heard him whisper, almost too quietly to hear: "Where are you?"

* * *

I really enjoyed writing this chapter, and showing Harry's state of mind and actions from a third-person perspective.

All four POV characters here were real passengers on the Titanic. Clear Cameron was a second-class passenger in RealLowe's boat who wrote some glowing things about him in private correspondence after the tragedy. Daniel Buckley is famously known for wearing a shawl to disguise himself as a woman; however, although there is some discrepancy about which lifeboat he boarded, most historians think it was 13, not 14. But he's one of my favorite real-life Titanic passengers (along with Olaus Abelseth, Rene Harris, Jack Thayer, and yes, Bruce Ismay), and for that, as well as story-related reasons, I have him in Harry's boat. Fang Lang was one of the few passengers RealLowe plucked from the sea that night; he was Chinese, not Japanese, but the prejudices of the time likely wouldn't have allowed for that distinction. It was also important for me to add that Harry picked him up not caring what his nationality was; given that he was later accused of racism at the hearings (which won't appear in this story; author's discretion), I wanted to emphasize what Inger Sheil had mentioned in her biography: that unlike most of his peers, he had a high regard for Chinese sailors.

My favorite POV character to write was Daisy Minahan, which is why her section is the longest. I really liked showing a different interpretation of Harry, one that wasn't as glowing and laudatory. His behavior that night, while competent and decisive, could very easily be interpreted as rude and even intimidating to the delicate sensibilities of first-class ladies (luckily, there weren't all that many in his boat). A lot of details about her personality are conjecture... but it was informed conjecture, based on her background, her social status, and her subsequent statements regarding RealLowe.


	19. Chapter 18: Despair

On the 108th anniversary of the Carpathia's return to New York with the survivors of the Titanic sinking, here it is: the culmination of Corrine's ordeal, the rendering of her fate.

But this is not the end. Oh, no; there is still a story to tell.

Random note: there's a blink-and-you-miss-it Rose reference in this chapter.

* * *

Corrine lay across the thwart in the swamped boat, staring up at the heavens. The stars whirled above in the ebony sky, oblivious to the human suffering below. She had never seen them look so sharp and cold.

She was past shivering; her body had become numb, almost warm. Despite the miserable conditions, she felt sleepy and comfortable.

The other occupants tried not to jostle her, but they were too close to death themselves to try and lift her out of the freezing water. So she lay there, and in her half-dreaming state, she remembered snatches of a song she had heard in the days before she left Southampton. Its haunting, melancholy lament had so moved her that she sought it out at every opportunity, and now she hummed a few bars of the refrain:

Last night the stars were all aglow

Last night I loved, I loved you so

My heart was glad for you were near

I held your hand and called you dear, my dear

And then the stars grew dim and cold

The moon grew pale, my heart grew old

My dream is o'er, to live no more

Last night was the end of the world

"Harry," she murmured. "Harry..."

* * *

The little boat, its sail filled with the brisk morning breeze, was moving along at a nice clip now - they must have been making almost five knots, estimated Seaman Joseph Scarrott. And the sky was slowly lightening. Although he was grateful he was alive to see another dawn, Scarrott knew that the shouts and moans of the dying would haunt him all the rest of the days. But he had done his duty, done what he could for them, he told himself. He had gone back with the rescue boat, anyway, and for that he could hold his head up high.

Nobody spoke much. There wasn't much to say, was there? The men - and one woman - they had picked up from the freezing waters lay on the bottom of the boat, and the crew tried to keep them as warm and comfortable as possible. But now it was time to head back to the raft of boats they had left behind, the ones with all the women and children, and see what there was to do for them. Only God knew how long they would be stranded in the now-empty sea-

Wait. He thought he had seen something in the water. He squinted. It almost looked like a piece of wreckage... but then he saw arms waving frantically. He hailed the officer - Lowe, he said his name was - who was fixing the sail, and pointed. His eyes widened, and he immediately changed course to head toward it.

As they approached, he saw that it was a boat, and the choppy waves were occasionally sloshing over its sides. "Are you all right?" Officer Lowe shouted to them. As he pulled along side the floundering vessel, he scanned the passengers intently. The distressed occupants pleaded with them not to add any more to their already heavy load. Nodding curtly, he agreed, his eyes constantly roving over faces, as if searching for something, or someone. One of the women in the boat thanked him for coming back to save them, and Scarrott realized that this was one of 'theirs', and it must have somehow come loose from the rest of the flotilla. The officer realized it too, and his shoulders drooped, just for a heartbeat. Then he tossed a rope to one of the men manning the oars, and told him to tie her up to them. The women in the boat cheered as Officer Lowe set off again, collapsible in tow. Scarrott was glad they could help a fellow group of survivors. But he noticed that the officer still looked disquieted, and his focus was not on the horizon - where salvation, if coming, would appear - but on the sea.

* * *

Olaus Abelseth looked down at the woman beside him. He wasn't sure if she was still in the land of the living. He watched the air above her mouth... yes, there it was: a cloud of breath in the chill early morning air.

He didn't know how she had made it through the night. She had been too weak to stand with the rest of them... and no one had the heart to throw her off, even if she had been dead, and even though they desperately needed to lighten the weight of the unstable craft. She had fought so hard to stay on with them, as others weakened, froze, and fell over the sides of the boat, to float away or sink into the depths. There were only two women left now, and the men had become protective of them, as best they could in these circumstances, anyway. The other one was standing, hugging everyone she could reach. Was it the comfort of human touch, at a time like this, that she needed? Or their warmth? Maybe she had lost her mind. Whatever the case, the men did what they could for her - and for each other, for that matter.

But there wasn't much anyone could do for the young lady who lay across the thwart. True, she was partly out of the water - but she was also partly submerged, too. The water level had steadily risen all night, and now it was about even with the wooden braces, maybe a little higher. If she wasn't able to raise herself from that position and stand very soon, she would die, and that was a fact. He had seen it happen already to others, ones that were much stronger and bigger than this frail young woman.

"Harry..." she whispered.

There it was again. The poor lass had been calling for this chap Harry all night long. Likely he was some lost love who went down with the ship. Well, she didn't need to know that.

He bent over her, careful not to splash water onto her already-wet face.

"Yes, miss, Harry is coming. I'm sure he'll be here very soon." He tried to brush the hair from her forehead, but it was frozen to her cheek.

It was the only comfort he could provide to her, the final bit of kindness to ease the last minutes of a dying girl.

* * *

Irene Harris, in collapsible D, had never been so happy to see someone in her life.

That man, the officer, had saved them - not once, but twice, in the same night. She was sure that her boat would have been lost in the sea, and perhaps even swamped by the poor souls in the water, if he hadn't found it and taken command of it before the ship went down. The men at the oars in her boat were positively useless. She could have done a better job - and did, as more than once she had stepped up to an oar herself after the other boats had cut them loose. She wasn't sure why they had been freed - the confused calls back and forth, the darkness, and over all of that, the screams of the dying, had traumatized them all so much that they didn't even know which end was up anymore. And then, after they had been set adrift, the waves started kicking up, and soon their little boat, without direction, without the strong presence of that young officer, began to wallow. When she saw a boat with its sail up, coming toward them, she thought it was a dream. Who has a sailboat in the middle of the Atlantic? her addled brain wondered. But then she realized it was just another lifeboat - only this one was commanded by a real sailor, not the incompetent fools in her boat. She recognized him as the officer from earlier, and shouted her thanks at him for coming over to rescue them. To her immense relief, he threw them a line and towed their soggy little boat behind his.

Daylight had finally come, putting an end to their interminable nightmare at last. With the dawn came a sight she thought she'd never see again: a ship, a small one-funnel steamer to the north. The occupants of both boats cheered loudly once more, and began arguing over what to do: should they approach the ship, or wait for it to pick them up? The officer sternly told them, "I am in charge here, and we will go to them." So he tacked his little sailboat in the direction of the steamer, dragging her collapsible along behind.

They were within half of a mile of the ship when she spotted something truly terrifying. It looked like about a dozen or so people were standing in the middle of the open sea! How could those people be alive? What were they standing on? One woman cried out, sure that some trick of the devil had caused the Titanic's funnel to emerge from the watery depths with the ghosts of its passengers aboard. She rolled her eyes and told the ridiculous woman to hush. She could hear them now - they were frantically shouting for help. Instantly, she felt the boat change direction, heading toward the desperate group.

* * *

Olaus, who was waving his arms and shouting with the rest, paused for a moment. He turned to the woman on the wooden board beside him and shook her shoulder. "Miss, we're saved! There's a lifeboat coming for us. See?" He lifted the top half of her body off of the thwart, propping her up in his arms. He pointed at the lifeboat rapidly approaching. "She's going to take us off, and you're going to be nice and warm, and then you'll find your Harry. Come on, then." He continued to hold her up, murmuring encouragements, for several minutes. She never responded. He looked down into the poor girl's face. It was white with cold, and her eyes were open, staring unseeing into the sky. He couldn't feel her chest move.

Gently, he laid her back down on the thwart.

* * *

"The woman goes first!" Officer Lowe shouted. He was barking orders, preparing his boat for the new load of survivors and warning the occupants of the swamped boat not to rush his or he'd throw them over the side. Scarrott lifted the woman bodily in his arms. She was so cold that her limbs weren't working properly, and when he set her down in the boat, she collapsed at the bottom, her head hitting the gunwale. He scrambled over and righted her before turning back and tending to the others.

They were all in pretty bad shape. He had never seen such a sorry lot - well, maybe the ones they had pulled from the water in the wee hours, but this group seemed little better. Apparently they had spent all night in that freezing little boat, the water steadily rising, with no hope of salvation. And yet they held on, persisted, and now, at least, they stood a chance, thanks to luck and the officer's skill and bravery. Once again, his chest puffed as he thought of the role he had played in helping others that night.

One by one, the survivors - all male now - were helped into the boat, where the crew did what they could for them. Finally, the last one was transferred over. Officer Lowe, who was back near the tiller seeing to the passengers' comforts, called out to the waterlogged group and asked if there were any more.

"No more, sir, only a few bodies," one shouted back.

"Bodies? Are you sure they're dead?" he asked.

"Quite, sir. They've been dead for some time now."

"Check them," he ordered Scarrott.

Scarrott peered into the bottom of the abandoned boat. The bodies of three men lay almost submerged at the bottom. A smaller body - a woman's? - lay across a thwart near the stern.

"What about the woman?" Scarrott called back.

A Norwegian immigrant spoke up. "Sad story, that one. She expired just as you began sailing for us. She fought so hard, too. Kept calling for a 'Harry' all night - I think it was the only thing keeping her alive, really."

* * *

To Olaus, it was as if the young officer had been shot from a gun. One instant, he was standing beside him, and in the next, he was leaping over thwarts and dodging through survivors. To Irene Harris, drifting along the port side of the sail-filled lifeboat in Collapsible D, it looked like he was flying, he moved so fast. Scarrott, who turned around to check out the commotion, saw him tear off his cap and greatcoat as he reached the bow and toss them aside before he leaped into the nearly-submerged collapsible.

* * *

Only two thoughts consumed Harold now: he had to get to her, and she had to still be alive. He sloshed through the freezing water, heedless of the instantaneous pain in his legs, the way it snatched his breath from his body. There she was, lying so still across the thwart, her right arm tucked under her head as if she were sleeping, her left trailing in the water. He had been screaming her name, but his voice caught in his throat as he approached, and he choked on a sob.

"No!" he wailed, and the agonized sound sent chills through the survivors in the two boats. It had seemed to come from deep inside of him, a raw lament that had no end.

He scooped her up in his arms, lifting her from the icy water. "Wake up, Corrine. It's me, Harry," he pleaded. "I've come back for you, like I promised." Desperately, he pressed her frozen body against his, rocking her gently in his arms. "Please, Corrine. Wake up. Come back to me."

He rubbed her arms, wrapped his body around hers. "Come on, darling, wake up. I'm here now. All is well." His voice broke, and his shoulders shook.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry," said a voice filled with regret. Scarrott, the seaman, had waded out to assist, but now stood helplessly beside the devastated officer and the lifeless girl. "She's gone, sir."

"No," Harold whispered. "No."

* * *

He wouldn't put her down. He insisted on carrying her body back to the boat. The other passengers watched the sad procession in stunned silence. They weren't quite sure what they had just witnessed, or who she was, but from the naked anguish on the officer's face, it was apparent that that this girl's death had broken him. The seaman led the way, head bowed. The girl was clutched tightly in the officer's arms, her head lolling to one side. Gently, so gently, he set her down on a seat. Someone came up and wrapped the officer's discarded coat around her; another person took off a blanket and, still shivering, laid it on her shoulders. The officer gently chafed the girl's frozen hands. "Come back, Corrine. I'm here now." His voice was a whisper, a plea, a prayer. He touched his forehead to hers. "Please..."

* * *

Cold.

So cold.

But more.

There was something... she needed to do something. Say something. She should get up, she should-

She couldn't move, couldn't see. Something pushed at her consciousness, refusing to let her sleep, to sink back into oblivion.

A voice. She knew that voice.

Who...?

Harry.

She felt him, his breath on her face, his arms around her...

He was here. He was really here. Right? This wasn't a dream.

Slowly, she opened one eye, just a sliver.

Harry.

She needed to tell him... needed him to know...

Why was he crying?

"Harry...?" she breathed.

* * *

The officer didn't hear her. But Scarrott did.

"Sir," he said urgently, and shook the officer's shoulder. "Sir, look! She's still alive!"

He opened his eyes and stared incredulously at the girl.

Faint, so faint that he almost missed it again...

"Harry... "

He began kissing her forehead, her cold cheeks, laughing and crying all at once.

"Harry... You came back..."

It was too much for the young officer. He finally broke down entirely, giving in to the sobs wracking his body, as his world slowly came back to life.

* * *

Historical note: all of the events in the chapter that don't directly involve Corrine really happened. After cruising around the wreckage looking for survivors, RealLowe's boat picked up Collapsible D in tow and also pulled all the survivors off of the waterlogged, nearly submerged Collapsible A. There's a very well-known picture of 14 arriving at the Carpathia, mast up, dragging D behind it. Most of the people in 14 are survivors of A. Lowe is pictured standing at the tiller.

"Last Night Was the End of the World" was a song written by Andrew Sterling and Harry Von Tilzer, and published in 1912. I found the lyrics particularly fitting to Corrine's and Harry's plight - and to the fate of Titanic generally.

Song inspiration: Rescue – Lauren Daigle. OMG, do me a favor and go listen to it. It fits this chapter eerily well.

I would freakin' love reviews on this chapter, since it was my favorite one to write :) But I have one request: if you do, please don't spoil the ending for anyone that may come after :) Thank you, lovelies!


	20. Chapter 19: Carpathia

I want to send a shout-out and many thanks to Fiction.2020 and Lowekey (formerly izzykenny), who have been ride-or-die supporters of this story for quite some time now; thank you for all the love, you two! Thank you also to the lovely guest reviewers who have chimed in with support and beautiful words - I love to hear that you enjoy the story so far and that you can't wait for the next chapter! I am so glad I've got a lot of Murdoch fans on board :) I have a great admiration for the First Officer, and it was important to me in this story to portray him as the hero he was. And MinoanPrincess1827: I am SO HAPPY to see you back! Love your insights... yes, you had Danny figured out way before I revealed him! Although the snobby couple was actually the Harpers, not the Duff Gordons (but good guess!); they had an Egyptian servant and a little Pekinese named Sun Yat-sen, who was saved as well. I would have included the Moody/Lowe exchange at lifeboats 14/16, except that Harry's POV sections ended right before it would have occurred :( But you can safely assume it did happen, only offscreen. And yes, I do have a soft spot for Ismay, due to the victimization of his character by the American press. For what it's worth, I don't think he pushed Captain Smith to increase the ship's speed the night of the accident. Finally, the song 'West' by Sleeping At Last is an absolutely BEAUTIFUL accompaniment to that chapter - thank you for bringing it to my attention! I had never heard it before, and it was haunting and moving.

And Rosie, darling... what can I say that you don't already know, except that you have been my rock, and have held me up through some truly challenging times, when my self-esteem and motivation were at absolute rock-bottom. I know I would've given up on W&S if it weren't for your emails of support and love :) Your belief in me, and in #harrine, has meant EVERYTHING to me! THANK YOU FROM THE BOTTOM OF MY HEART!

For all of you that read and reviewed... thank you again. That last chapter was a big one for me, and it brings me much happiness to see that you enjoyed it as well :)

A/N: The second half of this story is all about the aftermath of the sinking, and is just as long, if not longer, than the first half. You'll notice a difference in the pacing as well; the second half is slower, much more psychological. It's like they're really two separate stories, with the same characters: the first is the action, the second is the fallout from the action. I have a long-standing interest not just in the tragedy, but how it subsequently affected the survivors... and I want to do it justice. So, hang in there... we're not out of the woods by any means.

I apologize if this chapter seems like a recap of events, but our two wanderers have a lot of catching up to do with one another :)

* * *

Part 3

Officer Lowe tacked toward the ship, the boat's prow plowing through the water and spraying mist that caught the early morning light. He alternated between steering, scrambling about the little boat, calling out orders, and sitting next to the small woman covered head to toe in blankets, who was lying half-prone on a seat near the tiller. He constantly checked on her, watching her breathing, repositioning her when she started to slide downward in the boat, and adjusting the layers of material surrounding her. Once, he just held her close to him, murmuring into the blankets covering her hair.

From Collapsible D, Irene Harris watched him, and despite her pain over the almost certain loss of her own Harry, she had to smile. She thought it was the most tender scene she had ever witnessed.

* * *

Mary Fabian stood on the deck as the lifeboat maneuvered along the side of the Carpathia. She had been watching them come to her ship all morning, unable to tear her eyes away from the sight of the cold, weeping survivors. But this boat was different. First of all, it had a sail, and second, it was dragging a smaller boat behind it. It drew up with expert precision, skillfully directed by an officer standing at the helm. Soon, the little boat was made fast, and the passengers started making their way up the ladders or, in some cases, hauled up by ropes, nets, or sacks. When all of the sailboat's passengers had disembarked, the occupants of the collapsible began making their way from their boat to the more solid wooden one, and then to the safety of the Carpathia. During this time, she had lost track of the officer, but after everyone had left she saw that he had been huddled near the tiller, where a pile of blankets was nestled. When the boat was finally empty, he picked up the blanket-covered bundle gently in his arms and carried it to the cargo net. Signaling the crew above, he shouted, "Get her to the doctor quickly! There's no time to lose!"

He quickly stowed the mast and sail before scrambling up the rope ladder. By that time, crewmembers had retrieved the bundle from the net and one began carrying it toward the dining saloon, where a first-aid station of sorts had been hastily assembled. The officer caught up with him, and Mary trailed surreptitiously behind the little group, curious to see what the fuss was about.

A few beds had been dragged into the room, and the crewmember placed the blankets down on one as the officer began shouting for a doctor. As Dr. McGee hustled over, Mary saw an arm flop out of the pile. The doctor peeled back the layers of blankets and peered at the occupant inside.

Why, it was a young woman - little older than a girl, she saw with surprise. She was very pale, her lips blue with cold, and she was unconscious. Quickly, the doctor checked her pulse, then her breathing. Reassured that she was still in the land of the living, at least for the time being, he began tugging her coat and boots from her body, calling for the assistance of a stewardess to come and remove the rest of her soaked clothing under cover of the blankets. Another steward rushed over a small glass of brandy, which he put to her lips. She spluttered and coughed most of it out, but some must have made it into her mouth, because her cheeks warmed slightly with color. During this time, the officer stood by anxiously, watching, looking helpless.

"Will she live?" Mary heard him ask the doctor in a low voice.

Dr. McGee sighed. "If God wills, sir," he said resignedly. "We will do all we can, I assure you."

The woman was rewrapped in blankets, and the doctor moved off to another survivor after assuring the officer that he would check on her again in a few minutes to monitor her temperature and breathing. Mary watched as the officer slowly knelt by the bed and gently stroked the still-wet hair from the woman's face.

Mary turned away. The scene seemed too intimate, too private, to spy on any longer. She decided to grab a cup of hot coffee and see if she could dig something out of her own wardrobe for the poor woman to wear - if she survived, that is.

* * *

She woke to the throb of engines and the gentle motions of a ship at sea.

Corrine swam back to consciousness slowly, trying to get her bearings. Engines... a soft bed, warm blankets - so warm! She snuggled deeper into them before the thought came: where was she?

She tried to lift her arm to brush the covers aside, but to her surprise, her hand was attached to something. Puzzled, she opened her eyes and attempted to sit up, a maneuver that for some reason required considerable effort. Her body felt heavy, uncooperative. She groaned softly. What had happened to her, anyway?

Struggling, twisting, she finally managed to extricate herself from the covers and peer out. And there was Harry, sitting in a chair beside the bed, fast asleep, his hand gripping hers.

His head was drooped onto his chest. His uniform coat was unbuttoned, and his cap was off. She hadn't seen him like this since the night of the hooley...

All of a sudden, the memories came flooding back: the collision, the evacuation, the sinking, the frigid water... the struggle to survive, overlaid throughout with fear and longing for Harry.

Harry.

He had come for her; he had saved her. When she had almost lost hope... she remembered now, his face pressed against hers, his salty tears falling onto her frozen lips as he warmed her back to life.

Her own eyes flooded with tears. She tried to speak, to call for him, but her voice came out as a whisper, a croak. He did not stir. Gently, she squeezed his fingers.

His eyes flew open and immediately focused on her. They widened when they saw she was looking back at him.

"You're awake," he breathed. "I wasn't sure if-" his voice choked off in a sob. He put his face in his hands.

"Harry," she whispered.

In an instant, he was kneeling on the floor at her bedside, his arms wrapped around her waist, his head buried in the blankets covering her.

"Corrine... Corrine..." he murmured over and over, and it sounded like a prayer. His shoulders shook, and, startled, she realized he was crying again. Gently, she stroked his hair, as if he were a child, until at last he calmed.

When he finally looked up at her again, his eyes were red-rimmed. He gave her a watery smile. "Sorry about that," he said sheepishly. "Been doing that a lot lately."

She reached out and lovingly caressed his cheek with her hand, smiling back at him. They gazed at one another for a long time, and their eyes conveyed a thousand thoughts and feelings that made words inadequate.

His warm brown eyes glowed with an emotion she hadn't seen before as he looked at her. Was it relief? Admiration? Fondness? Was it... something more? She resolved to find out soon... but for now, there were other, more pressing concerns - and chief among them was an urgent need to know what happened after Titanic went under.

At the thought of the catastrophe, she felt fresh waves of lethargy threaten at the edges of her vision, but she pushed them back. Finally, gathering her strength, she spoke. "How... how long have I been asleep?" Her voice was rough from disuse.

"Almost a day and a half, all told," he said. At her alarmed expression, he took her hand in his, rubbing his thumb over the back to soothe her.

She took a deep breath. "Where are we?" she asked. She peered around in confusion. It appeared that she was in a small but comfortable private room. The bed hugged the right wall, and she could see a porthole on the left wall, and a door directly in front of her, which likely led outside to a corridor. The furnishings, which were mahogany, consisted of a small wardrobe and a washbasin in a cabinet on the left wall, and a writing desk beside the bed.

"We're on the Carpathia," he replied. "That's the ship that came to our rescue. She was steaming like hell for us all night, and made it early in the morning. And just in time, too," he continued gravely. "Some of our boats were in bad shape. But thankfully she managed to pick us all up and bring everyone onboard safely."

She gasped, eyes filling with fear as her thoughts turned to her friends. "Katie and Kate-"

"They're doing well," he assured her quickly. "I just spoke with them this morning, actually."

She heaved a big sigh and closed her eyes momentarily, overcome with relief and gratitude. But the present soon intruded on her brief moment of peace, and she opened her eyes reluctantly. "How many survivors?" she whispered, dreading the answer.

He averted his eyes. "Only around seven hundred or so," he said quietly.

A sob escaped her lips. The enormity of the tragedy was slowly coalescing for her, and she found it difficult for her mind to accept. "There are no others?"

"No," he said with finality. "Only the people who made it into lifeboats lived." He caressed her hand again. "And that includes you, Corrine. You were so brave-". He couldn't finish his sentence; he swallowed and looked down at their linked hands for a moment.

She had never seen him this overcome with emotion before. Usually he was so controlled and confident... what had happened since she had seen him last? she wondered, concerned. What had he endured without her?

"Harry," she said gently, "please tell me... everything. Everything that you can bear."

And so he did. He told her about tying up the lifeboats, about looking for her in every boat, in every face. He told her how he transferred all the women and children from his boat into other boats so as not to endanger them when he went back to the wreckage. And he told about how his handpicked crew slowly maneuvered through the bodies, looking, looking... for anyone alive, but especially for her.

"How- how did you eventually find me?" she asked.

He told her about coming across the first collapsible, and then the strange sight of the men standing on a piece of flotsam. He evacuated all the survivors before he found out that there was a woman's body still on the sinking collapsible... here, he stopped, unable to finish. But she knew the rest; it had been her, and he must have found her just barely in time to save her life.

"I went back for you, you know," he said hoarsely. "I promised I would, and... I never stopped looking," he told her, gazing up into her eyes. "I knew you were out there - somehow I knew - and I wasn't going to give up until I found you."

Sudden pain lanced through her heart. He had so clearly suffered... and it was all her fault. If only she had made it into a boat before the ship sank...! "Oh, Harry," she breathed. "I am so sorry... for causing you so much worry and trouble..."

His expression grew stern. "Nonsense, Corrine," he said firmly. "Do not apologize for surviving. You managed to beat the odds; how you did it was... risky, but ultimately irrelevant. You did what you had to do to live, and there'll be no judgement from me on it. Besides," he said, and she saw a glimmer of his usual impudent manner return, "by climbing into that collapsible, you made my job easier."

"How so?" she wondered.

His face turned serious again. "Because if I hadn't found you out there in the sea, or on this ship after I unloaded my passengers... I was going to hop right back in that lifeboat and keep looking. I'd still be out there now," he confessed quietly.

She looked at him, aghast, and shook her head slowly as his words sunk in. They both knew there would have been no hope for her if she hadn't found the swamped boat. The implication was that he would still be searching... for her body. Tears threatened to spill over onto her cheeks, but seeing his bleak expression, she held them back, not wanting to upset him further.

She tried to squeeze his hand to reassure him, but her fingers barely twitched in his grip. "But you did find me, Harry. I'm alive because of you," she managed to get out, her voice quavering with emotion. "Thank you... for rescuing me..." She had to find a way to express her appreciation for everything he had done for her - it suddenly seemed like the most important thing in the world - but her words were inadequate, and she trailed off, unable to continue. She wanted to tell him so much more: how profoundly grateful she was that he hadn't given up on her... that she never would have survived without the thought of him to cling to in the darkness... that she loved him so very much... but she suddenly felt overwhelmed and so incredibly tired...

He read the exhaustion and anguish in her face, and his expression swiftly changed from solemn to concerned. "Corrine, are you all right? Should I call for the doctor?"

"I'm fine... just... sleepy..." she whispered, her eyes drifting shut, wanting to block out the overpowering flood of feelings brought about by the tragedy and her near brush with death, which had shaken both of them to their cores.

"Rest then, my darling," he murmured in her ear, kissing her forehead.

Right before she floated off to sleep, she heard the squeak of springs and felt the mattress dip lower as he climbed into the bed. He wrapped his body around hers, pulling her against his chest and holding her tightly. She breathed in his familiar scent, nestling against him, and for the first time since she had awakened on the night of the sinking to find their lives forever changed, she knew peace.

Echoing far away, as if down a long tunnel, she heard him whisper: "As long as I'm here, nothing will ever hurt you again..."

Enveloped in his warm embrace, sheltered from the newly uncertain world they now inhabited, Corrine let the darkness take her.

* * *

Mary Fabian was a first-class passenger on Carpathia, and actually did have a conversation with RealLowe while he was onboard, hence why she was chosen as the POV for the second section.


	21. Chapter 20: Stories

Thank you to all my readers and reviewers - you don't know how relieved I am to see you all still here with me! :) To my lovely guest reader: you are so sweet for your beautiful and kind words! The emotion is just getting started (although maybe not so much in this chapter) so hang on! Sam: Thanks for the recommendation about 'Sea of Glass'! I have consulted it many times when I was writing the sinking chapters; it was one of my most reliable and thorough references. I especially appreciated the authors' fair and balanced analysis of Ismay's actions, and the detailed description of the evidence concerning the possible officer suicide that night. And yes, I do plan on writing another Titanic fic once W&S is done, although it's going to be very different from this one ;) I'm still a long way off from it, though! And dear Rosie: thank you for all your lovely ideas, emails, encouragement - and most of all for being my biggest supporter :)

A/N: The next two chapters don't have any action - there's a lot of Harry/Corrine interplay, but because of her condition it necessarily takes the form of conversation and story-telling. It might seem like filler, but I'm slowly building to something, and the groundwork has to be laid first; hence the slow pace. Besides, I need to take a break from angst for a little while :)

* * *

Corrine slept for some time, but was eventually awakened by a doctor coming into the room. He was there to check her progress, he said. Apparently she was suffering from severe exhaustion and a sprained shoulder, and in addition had narrowly avoided having her legs amputated; the frostbite was at first thought to be so severe as to be irreparable. However, a second opinion from the Hungarian doctor on board convinced him to take a more conservative approach.

"And he was right," admitted Dr. McGee, after examining her now. "The tissue looks much healthier today. You may end up keeping your legs after all." He gave her a disapproving look. "You might need them to run away from that man outside your door, miss. He has been quite adamant about your care. And, I daresay, none too polite about it either." He sniffed. "I'm only supposed to be attending to the first-class passengers, but Officer Lowe has bullied me into taking on you as well. Not that I'm unwilling," he hastened to add, at her look of chagrin. "It's a very fascinating case, after all."

She gave him a halfhearted smile, hoping he'd just go away. Eventually, to her relief, he did. "Just eat as much as you can, and move your legs and arms whenever possible. Vigorous circulation will keep the limbs in good repair," he advised as he left.

As if on cue, Harry stepped into the room. He was carrying a mug of hot tea and a bowl full of something that looked and smelled like soup. He rolled his eyes at the door as he closed it. "That man hates my bloody guts," he said by way of explanation.

Corrine laughed. It felt good to do that again, despite everything. And it reassured her that Harry seemed to have returned to his usual irreverent self. Seeing him so emotional, so vulnerable, had upset her deeply. She never wanted him to experience unhappiness or torment, even for a minute - and especially not on her account.

He weaved his way over to the bed and pressed the cup of tea into her hands. "Drink," he ordered. She raised one eyebrow at his tone, but did as he instructed. It was heavenly: fragrant, warm, and soothing. She had no idea how long it had been since he had had anything to eat or drink, and she found she desperately needed the nourishment. Just a few sips invigorated her, and she discovered she was finally able to pull herself into a sitting position.

"How are you feeling now, my brave girl? Better?" he asked, eyeing her closely.

She nodded, and a look of relief flashed over his face. He sat in the chair and watched as she greedily slurped down the tea.

Finally, she drained the last few drops and sat back with a satisfied sigh. Quickly, he reached out to take the empty cup from her hand. "Don't you dare try to read the tea leaves. I don't want to know," he said. His tone was light, but his eyes were serious. She furrowed her brow in confusion, but he waved her off. "Never mind that. Are you taking that wanker's advice and exercising your legs?"

In reply, she wiggled her feet under the covers and then pulled her legs up to her chest, giving him a smug look.

He grinned. "I daresay you'll be dancing a jig again in no time, Miss Donnelly." She pushed her legs back down until they were lying flat again, stretching them out. To her surprise, he reached out and began rubbing them through the covers, massaging from her knees to her feet. "Vigorous circulation," he said, and winked at her.

Oh, her circulation was vigorous now, all right. Her heart was pounding and her blood was racing - and he wasn't even touching her skin, for goodness sake! She took a deep breath and tried to appear unaffected by the feel of his hands on her body; she knew it was purely therapeutic, but she didn't want him to stop - and he probably would if he knew what he was doing to her insides.

He paused a moment to hand her the bowl of soup, and then continued his ministrations, kneading and rubbing slow circles up and down her legs - but never going higher than her knees, she noticed. It was just as well, she thought; she would probably dump the soup all over herself if he did. As it was, she had to force her hands not to shake. Luckily, as focused as he was on his task, he didn't notice.

"So-" she started, her voice coming out like a squeak. She tried again: "So, I forgot to ask you earlier - where are we bound?"

"New York," he said, still rubbing. "Captain Rostron originally thought to take us to Halifax, as it's the nearest port, or to the Azores, his original destination, but decided instead that it would be best if we returned to New York so that the survivors could receive medical treatment and meet up with their families."

She nodded. So she would still be going to America after all - just not in the ship of dreams. Her heart lurched, but she didn't have time to dwell on the sorrow, because another thought suddenly superseded it. "And what about you, Harry? How long will Titanic's crew be in New York?" she asked tentatively.

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she felt a cold dread in the pit of her belly. They both knew that she was asking how soon he would have to leave her. Before Titanic sank, when she had pledged herself to him the night of the hooley, his inevitable return to England had not seemed such a terrible prospect. Assuming he stayed with Titanic as its fifth officer, he would travel the Southampton to New York route regularly; she could establish herself in New York, find a boarding house and a job close to the docks, and see him every other week for a few days at a time. The short interludes that he would spend in New York would never be enough, but she knew that long stretches of loneliness and worry were the price a woman paid for loving a sailor - and she'd gladly pay it for a few precious hours per month in his arms. She had even begun to fantasize that he could stay with her while he was in the city - a thought that had made her tremble with anticipation. But now... everything seemed uncertain. How long would he stay in New York before returning to England? Would he even want to stay, or would he want to go home immediately? Would he be reassigned to another route somewhere far away - maybe even Australia again? The thought made panic rise in her throat. She couldn't be separated from him that long... not now, not after what they had gone through...

Her thoughts were interrupted by his measured reply. "I don't know," he said. His hands had stopped massaging her legs, she noticed. "I suppose we'll have to wait and see - although hopefully they'll give me a little time to... well, get things sorted."

If her brain hadn't still been so foggy from exhaustion and the emotional effects of the catastrophe, she might have noticed the uncharacteristic and peculiar nervousness in his demeanor, which was at odds with his words. As it was, she breathed a small sigh of relief at his reassuring if somewhat dismissive response. At least it didn't seem as if he wanted to bolt back over the pond at the earliest opportunity. And she assumed that his enigmatic reference to needing a little time meant that he was hoping to be able to spend that time with her, maybe help her settle in New York. She decided not to press the issue for the moment, though; there were still too many uncertainties, and it was too soon after the disaster to plot out definite plans for the future, she supposed. "Let's not think on it now, Harry," she said softly.

He nodded, looking somewhat relieved, and resumed rubbing her legs again. "I should know more in a day or so, once we get closer to America, and then we'll talk about it again," he said. His tone had a certain finality to it, and she knew that the discussion was closed for now.

During the short pause that followed, she decided to lighten the conversation a bit by turning it to her favorite subject: him. "Tell me, other than seemingly waiting on me hand and foot, what have you been doing in your forced confinement? Have you been navigating this ship as well?" she teased.

He laughed. "Well, I've taken a few turns to relieve the Carpathia's officers of watch and watch, but for the most part, they have enough capable men already - including the one who gave up his room to you, Mr. Bisset. He's Second Officer here, and a capital fellow - offered this cabin without a second thought when I asked the captain about finding a bed for you."

"Please thank him for me," she said demurely. She had a feeling that the man's generosity had more to do with Harry's position as an officer than with her condition. Still, she thought it was noble that ships' officers looked out for one another, even when they worked for different lines - and she knew that on a ship this crowded, she was very fortunate to have a private room.

"I already have - numerous times, believe me," Harry assured her. "And as for what I've been up to... well, I've been mostly been keeping busy by going among the survivors, taking names, talking to those who were in my boat; we were all brought together so suddenly, and there's a sense of... I guess you could deem it friendship."

She nodded in understanding. "I'm sure they were terribly grateful to have both a boatman and a sailor to protect them from danger that night," she prompted with a smile.

"The danger was in getting them off the ship, Corrine. I thought for sure the whole lot of them would shoot out the bottom of the boat, especially when those men..." His face hardened, and she knew he was thinking about Thomas and his friend. Cold fury rose in his eyes, but then he glanced at her face, and his expression smoothed, though not without effort. When he had mastered himself, he took a deep breath and continued, "But once we were in the water... well, everything was smooth as glass then. It couldn't have been a calmer sea."

She pushed down a wince and resisted the urge to wrap her arms around her upper body. She remembered the sea that night very differently: the churning, the splashing, from hundreds of people stranded in the water... Luckily, he hadn't noticed her momentary distress, and he amended, "Well, that is, until the morning, when the wind came up. In fact, we arrived at the Carpathia under sail."

"Really?" She raised her eyebrows at that.

"Naturally," he said breezily. "I wanted to get the survivors to safety as quickly as possible. And when I found you, that task became even more urgent," he finished quietly.

"But what about you, Harry? Did you ever worry about your own life or safety that night?" Because that's all I thought about, she finished in her own head.

"Not at all," came his immediate reply. "I'm used to risking my life," he added carelessly.

As much as it made her insides quake with fear to hear that, she couldn't resist the bait; she recognized the makings of a good yarn when she heard it, and by the twinkle in his eyes, she thought he might be willing to share. "Do tell, Harry," she said, raising one eyebrow and smiling at him. "I'd love to hear about some of your adventures at sea."

"If you drink your soup, I'll give you a tale or two," he nudged, and laughing, she agreed to his terms.

And so, with a good-natured shrug, he agreed to tell her about some of his more memorable - and coincidentally dangerous - exploits. It seemed that whenever a ship's captain needed a courageous man to undertake a particularly difficult task, Harry was the first to volunteer. He told her of a time on the Nitrate Coast where his ship ran up close to the shore, and they thought they were hulled. "The sea was turbulent, but someone had to be lowered over the side to check... and so I took off all my clothes and-"

"You what?" she spluttered.

"Well, I didn't want to get them wet," he said primly. "Anyway, there's no room for modesty on a ship full of men." He grinned as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "In fact, there was indeed a small hole in the hull, and I had to go back over once the crew fothered a sail, to plug the hole and stop the leak. We were able to limp into port - and save the cargo of coal, fortunately."

Surprisingly, another one of his daring sea adventures involved mortal danger - and nudity - which privately reinforced her opinion that sailors were only a semi-civilized lot. On a trip homeward from Japan, the captain needed a volunteer to mount the rigging in the eye of the storm. Harry jumped at the chance, glibly declaring that he could die from the yard as easily as from the deck.

She threw him a look of reproach at his wanton recklessness, and he shrugged. "Skylarking was my favorite way to pass the time anyway. That was in the days of sail, of course - before I switched to steam." A note of longing and nostalgia had crept into his voice, and she realized with some surprise that he probably missed the time before steamers - and passengers - came to dominate his life. Then his eyes cleared, and he smirked at her. "It would have been enough to give you the vapors, Corrine. Just imagine frolicking above, in the riggings and tops, a hundred feet above deck, and all the while the ship is swaying back and forth below you." He snickered at her horrified expression. "It was second nature to me, though; I used to get up as high as I could and then hang upside down with my legs woven in between the ropes to see how long I could stand it... Anyway," he said casually, as if he hadn't just scared her to death, "I figured I might as well put my talents to good use when the necessity arose, so when the captain called I ran up the ratlines quick as you please and did the needful. And somehow or other I managed to stay on the ship when the storm blew up again while I was on the yardarm." Again, though, his distaste for wet clothing made him strip down before he went aloft: "I only had one pair of dry clothes left; the quarters on that ship were always damp," he explained rather sheepishly.

She was trying to act nonchalant and sophisticated about it, but the thought of Harry running about without clothes was a bit titillating, if she were being honest. She had to forcibly suppress a silly grin and a blush at the images her overactive - and curious - mind was creating. "So that's the way seamen handle crises on ships? Just... disrobe, and go about their business?"

He laughed. "Well, not always. Sometimes there's no time for that. Once we had a man slip and fall overboard while we were out at sea. I thought he might have been ill, or hurt, so I leaped in after him straight away to make sure he didn't drown." He shook his head. "That time I was soaked straight through," he admitted regretfully.

"But did the man live?" she pressed.

He waved his hand airily. "Of course. I'm an excellent swimmer, and I kept his head above water until we were both pulled in."

An excellent swimmer; no surprise there, she thought with amusement. Was there anything this man could not master? She remembered the feel of his lips on hers as they kissed that night on Titanic's deck. Oh, yes, he was an expert in that area too, she thought giddily. I wonder where-

"All right, Corrine?" he asked, breaking into her thoughts. He was looking at her oddly, and she schooled her face into an expression of neutrality.

"Er, yes, I- I was just thinking of... of the passengers. Whatever did they think of all this nudity?" she countered.

He laughed. "Well, obviously, I had to learn to be more modest once I started working on ships with passengers aboard. No more baths with the deck hose, either - which was a shame, because I did like to stay neat and dapper during those long voyages."

He paused, and a glint of amusement rose in his eyes. "Of course, that reminds me of another story about naked swimming..."

Shaking her head in exasperation, she demanded that tale as well. This one occurred when he was a boy, before he ran away from home. One night, he climbed down a tree that grew right outside his window and met his friends for a late-night swim. Only his friends decided to hide his clothing on a lark, and he was forced to walk back home, starkers and soaking wet, to face his father's anger and disapproval.

"I got the belt for that," he admitted ruefully. "It was a painful lesson." He lowered his eyes and began picking at a thread on the blanket covering her bed. "Almost as painful as the beating I got when I poured all the alcohol in my father's liquor cabinet down the loo."

The room quieted for a moment as he paused, letting that sink in. And although her mind was still not working properly, once she was able to finally put the pieces together, she knew exactly what he was implying: like her own father, Harry's father drank too much.

The lighthearted conversation of a few moments ago was gone; Corrine read the tension in Harry's body and the serious expression on his face quite clearly, and her heart went out to him. She realized that he was trusting her with a very painful and personal part of his childhood, one that had deeply affected him. It was a feeling that she knew all too well, and she wanted to let him know that he was not alone, that he shouldn't be embarrassed. "Oh, Harry..." she said softly, voice filled with empathy. "I tried that trick also," she said, putting her hand on his. "It didn't work for me, either."

He looked up at her, dumbfounded. "You mean, your father is... fond of the bottle, too?"

She nodded.

"That's the real reason you left home to live in Southampton," he said slowly.

She nodded again as another realization dawned on her. "And it's the reason you don't drink - and why you ran away, isn't it?"

He sighed. "Yes. Well, that, and I really didn't want to be apprenticed; I meant what I said, and that was that. My father, though... he was demanding, and insistent, and disapproving of everything I did - a right bastard sometimes, honestly." He looked ashamed at the admission, but when he glanced warily at her and saw her understanding and supportive expression, he immediately relaxed.

Painfully, hesitantly, they began to open up to one another about their childhoods. Corrine's father's condition had been out in the open, so she was used to discussing it matter of factly, but Harry's father had hidden his problem behind closed doors, and so it took a little more time to draw him out, make him feel comfortable talking about what to him was a dirty little family secret. Otherwise, they found eerily similar parallels in their early lives, and they found that being able to commiserate together over having an unreliable and sometimes cruel parent was liberating. And the fact that both had made plans to escape the disease that ruled their lives, and had become hardened and strengthened in the process, was not lost on them, either.

A few differences emerged, too. During the course of their conversation, she learned to her surprise that Harry had escaped a life of privilege, rather than one of deprivation, as she had originally thought. She had always assumed, given his impetuous nature and his colorful language, that he had grown up poor and working-class like her. But his fathers' home was large enough to serve as a hotel, and he had grown up with servants, a good education, and all the material comforts he needed. It made her realize that conditions in his house must have been quite miserable for him to want to leave such luxury.

As their heart-to-heart progressed, she realized that although she had felt an immediate connection with him, she still hadn't known much about the man she had fallen in love with until today. As with all things Harold Lowe, she was fascinated by his complicated nature and his many layers - and she had likely not even scratched the surface yet. Every story, every shared confidence, was a revelation. And the more she learned about him, the more her heart opened to him.

It was during a lively discussion about Harry's escape to Portmadoc to find his first ever berth that she yawned quite involuntarily - and he noticed immediately.

He took the empty bowl of soup - she must have finished it at some point during their conversation, although she was so caught up in him that she had barely noticed - and wagged a finger at her. "You need to rest some more, Corrine," he said firmly. "You're not out of the woods yet. Another night's sleep will help set you right."

"I'm not-" she began, as her words were swallowed by another giant yawn, "-tired," she finished a bit sheepishly.

He looked at her pointedly, and she shrugged, admitting defeat. She settled back down into the bed, and he tucked the covers in around her, making sure she was warm and snug.

Maybe it was the feeling of intimacy that had taken root during their conversation - or the casual but possessive way he had touched her earlier - but she suddenly felt bold... bold enough to find the courage to make the request that was on the tip of her tongue.

"Aren't you going to lie down next to me again?" she prompted as she gazed up at him, heart suddenly racing.

He froze, and then blushed bright red, something she hadn't seen him do in quite awhile. "You... you were awake, then? I thought you had already fallen asleep..."

She shook her head slowly, eyes fixed on him with an expression of hopeful anticipation.

He swallowed noisily. "I can't," he said stiffly. "It was inappropriate... I wouldn't want to... I mean, I might... and you..." His babbling ceased suddenly, and he looked away, running his hand through his hair. He seemed uncomfortable - and utterly mortified.

Corrine took pity on him. He had kept the pain at bay, and she needed him... but he obviously felt awkward, and she didn't want to push. Besides, his refusal wounded her a bit, if she were being honest. "It's all right, Harry... I was just teasing anyway," she said, forcing a laugh and shrugging dismissively.

The tension in his face eased, and Corrine hid her dismay at his obvious relief. "But I'll stay here, right beside you, until you fall asleep," he said resolutely. He sat in the chair and gazed into her eyes. "I won't leave you again, Corrine," he said softly.

She could still feel his dark eyes upon her as she finally surrendered to sleep.

* * *

Some of the stories that Harry tells Corrine - rescuing the man overboard and mounting the rigging in the eye of a storm, for instance - were reported in Inger Sheil's biography of RealLowe. I have embellished some of the details for Corrine's sake ;)


	22. Chapter 21: A Tall Tale

Thank you to ALL my readers and reviewers, new and old, for sticking by me (even when I was late this week - yikes!). I'm thrilled to see that you liked hearing some of Harry's backstory - and that some of you recognized the stories as well! NickiO: I too am very picky about FF, so I'm so flattered that you are enjoying this one! Hvala :) Hi Sam! Yes, I intended from the start for Corrine to end up in Collapsible A - because that was the one that Lowe picked up, after all ;) But even if she had ended up on B (as in, if Lights had pulled her over the side with him), I probably wouldn't have included the story about Captain Smith. As much as I wish that story were true (and believe me, my heart melts at the thought of Smith and Lightoller saving a baby), I just don't find it plausible; Lightoller never mentioned this incident in any of his accounts... and if it did happen, well, we know that there were no babies saved on Collapsible B, so that particular tale would have had a tragic ending :( But yes, I have given Smith short shrift in this story; I don't mention him much because it would have been unlikely for Corrine to have had any interactions with him (unlike Murdoch, who seemed to be everywhere that night). And yes, I have seen the film ANTR - I just watched it for the first time on the anniversary of the sinking! And I do prefer it in many ways to Cameron's Titanic (although there's not enough Lowe in it, ha!)... except there's nothing quite like those Nearer My God To Thee scenes in Cameron's, which get me in the feels every time :( And finally to my dear Rosie, thank you once again for all your love and support - always ;) Love you!

A long-awaited reunion is coming! Also, I love Storytelling Harry, so here he is for an encore :)

* * *

The next morning, Harry was back, waking her with a breakfast of tea and a bowl of hot oatmeal. He gave the oatmeal a snooty expression. "The doctor says it will fill your stomach and give you strength, but it looks like plaster." He wrinkled his nose. "I'll try to filch you some ham and eggs later, when he isn't watching."

They kept the conversation over breakfast as light as possible considering the circumstances. She knew he wanted to keep her spirits up, and in turn, she didn't want to burden him unduly with her own worries. They carefully avoided any discussion of the disaster - or their future. Fortunately, his unsettled look from the night before had vanished, and she made a mental note not to demand more from him than he was willing to give.

She was scooping the last of the oatmeal - which wasn't nearly as tasteless as Harry had implied - onto her spoon when he said with a gleam in his eye, "I have a few surprises for you today, Corrine."

"Good ones, I hope?" she said lightly.

"You'll see soon enough," he said mysteriously, and got to his feet. "I'll be back in awhile." He reached out and caressed her cheek with his hand, took up the dirty dishes, and left with a wink.

Idly, Corrine sat in the bed, moving her legs up and down as she waited. Just as she was starting to get bored, and wonder where Harry had gone off to, she heard the sound of female voices outside of her room. Her heart leaped; she would have recognized those voices anywhere. Sure enough, the door flew open, and there stood Kate and Katie.

The three girls had a tearful but joyful reunion. Katie, always the demonstrative one, curled up in bed next to Corrine. "I'm so sorry, about everything - especially Thomas," Katie wept, as Corrine held her.

"Nonsense - it's not your fault at all. How were you to know he was a total wanker?" she said soothingly.

Kate goggled at her language, but Katie snorted through her tears. Then she grew serious again. "I would have rather died myself than lose you, Corr." She put her head on Corrine's shoulder. "Thank God for Harry," she murmured.

"Indeed," Corrine quietly agreed.

"You know," said Katie, regaining some of her usual effervescence, "It's because of me that he went back to the wreck to look for you."

"Katie-" Kate warned, rolling her eyes.

But Corrine, intrigued, gestured for her to continue. So Katie - above Kate's objections - explained about the tea leaf prophecy, and how when Harry had overheard the conversation, he decided to take a boat back to look for survivors from the sinking.

"Katie, he was going to do that anyway, no doubt, with or without your interference," Kate retorted, exasperated.

Katie waved off her protests airily. Then she turned serious. "The tea leaves were right, Corr. No, they were," she said firmly, holding up a hand as Corrine tried to laughingly protest. "You were dead when Harry found you. I know, because I talked to a man that was on that terrible boat with you, and he told me. You had stopped breathing and everything. They had all given up on you - all but Harry."

"I didn't know that," Corrine said slowly. "He didn't tell me."

"Probably didn't want to frighten you," Katie reassured quickly. "Anyhow, your story has become legend already, Corr! All the steerage passengers are talking about you! The brave lass who led a group up from the bottom decks, saw her friends put on boats, and then went down with the ship, who was then saved at the very last minute by a dashing officer..." She sighed dreamily and pretended to swoon. "It's all so dramatic, and so romantic, isn't it?"

Corrine looked down at her hands, uncomfortable at Katie's blithe description of what was, to her, a very dark and traumatic experience. "That's all a bit much-" she started, but Kate interrupted.

"People have very little to celebrate. You're a small bright spot in a time of great grief. Let them have that," she said softly.

"Yes, and let Harry have his moment in the sun, too. He's a regular John Bull," Katie said admiringly. She sat up, suddenly animated. "He even commandeered an officer's cabin for you, Corr," Katie crowed, waving her hand at the room around them. "Went to Captain Rostron himself and near demanded it, as I heard. He said you were in a delicate state... and the good captain mistook you for being with child." She giggled. "Harry didn't try to correct him, and so here you are - set up like a queen in your own private room."

Corrine laughed incredulously. So that's how it had really happened, then. Harry's version of the story had made him out to be much more courteous and tame about it - but even if slightly exaggerated, Katie's words rang true. It seemed that Harry had forgotten he no longer had a ship, and thought he was master of this one as well. And so his legend grows, she thought, amused.

"He loves you so much, you know," Katie continued, a note of envy creeping into her voice. She sighed. "He would move heaven and earth for you."

"Oh, I don't know, Katie," Corrine protested, startled at the rather mortifying turn the conversation had taken. "I mean, he's never told me-"

"Don't be daft, Corr," Katie barked impatiently. "His boat was the only one to go back - and why do you think he did? Because of you, you eejit. How could you possibly question his devotion after what he did?"

"It's not that... it's just... well, he asked me to wait for him, and be his girl, but that doesn't mean he feels... that way. You know... love, I mean. That's a pretty strong word..." She trailed off and blushed, looking to Kate for assistance, but to her surprise, Kate was looking at Katie and nodding her agreement.

"She's right, Corrine. You're being a ninny - and an insecure one at that. Why else would he have searched the entire ocean for you?"

Just then, the man in question entered the room. At once, the conversation stuttered to a halt; all three girls blushed and suddenly found something interesting to stare at on the floor.

Harry sensed the awkwardness immediately and stopped cold. "Did I interrupt something?" he asked, his eyebrows climbing up his forehead.

"Nothing at all, Mr. Lowe," Kate hastened to assure him. Corrine smiled to herself. Someone had finally straightened her out about Harry's name, then. Turning back to Corrine, Kate said, "I think we should let our friend rest now, don't you, Katie?" She nudged her friend pointedly, nodded to Harry, and waved goodbye to Corrine before leaving the room.

Katie rolled her eyes but acquiesced. "Think about what I said," she whispered in Corrine's ear as she rose from the bed. Giving Harry a dazzling smile and a conspiratorial wink, she sashayed after Kate.

Corrine closed her eyes and shook her head, a faint smile tracing her lips. That girl was incorrigible - and to have Kate agree with her in a rare show of solidarity was quite surprising indeed.

When she opened her eyes again, Harry was looking at her quizzically. "Do I want to know what that was all about?"

She blushed. "No," she said, and quickly changing the subject, asked, "What news, Harry?"

His look turned somber. "Not much. Survivors are telling their stories, comparing notes, trying to piece together what happened that night. And there's a great deal of misery and suffering, Corrine. Everyone lost someone they know, and although there were a few happy reunions that first morning, most everyone is now coming to terms with the cold hard fact that there aren't any more survivors, and their missing loved ones are gone." His eyes slid away from her. "Third class was hit the hardest. Only around twenty-five percent survived."

She shuddered and squeezed her eyes shut as memories from that night flashed through her mind: the hundreds of passengers patiently waiting in the dining room and on the staircase; the men who were prevented from ascending to the boat deck; the families refusing to be separated; the foreign immigrants who couldn't understand what was happening. "I'm not surprised," she said, her voice heavy with sorrow. "No one came to help us... except Mr. Hart." Fresh pain welled in her heart as she thought of it. Third class passengers hadn't stood a chance; they hadn't recognized the danger until it was too late - and no one had told them.

"There will be a reckoning, Corrine," he said, his eyes hardening. "When we get home, the Board of Trade will hold an inquiry into the disaster, and they'll sort it out." Once again, he looked away from her. "I'm certain that everyone who contributed to the disaster will be held responsible."

She furrowed her brow at that last comment, puzzled. He almost sounded... remorseful. But he hadn't done anything wrong, after all - if anything, he had done more than anyone else to save lives that night. Before she could pursue it, however, he said gently but firmly, "I won't endanger your health by burdening you further with such sad tidings, Corrine. You've had a long morning. I think the best thing for you to do would be to take a nap." His mouth quirked up in a grin. "I'll even tell you a bedtime story, if you like."

She knew he was trying to change the subject, and she allowed it; he needed a distraction as much as she did. She pondered his offer. "Does this one involve men running around starkers?" she asked cheekily.

He chuckled at that. "No... but I can include that bit, if you want," he said with a mischievous grin.

She shook her head, smiling back, and he sighed in mock resignation. "Right, then, we'll keep it clean."

She looked at him expectantly, and he obliged, launching into his tale.

"Once, long ago, in a faraway kingdom, there lived a beautiful maiden." Her eyebrows rose in amusement at his sly acknowledgement of her name's meaning. "The king who ruled her lands was rich as Midas, but never satisfied with his wealth - he always wanted more and more," he continued. "One day he heard that a ruler in a land across the sea had a beautiful blue diamond called the Heart of the Ocean. It was supposed to be the most rare and precious jewel in all the world, and the greedy king determined that he must have it at all costs."

He paused for dramatic effect, then went on. "The king knew it wouldn't be easy to obtain this prize, so he offered a fiefdom to anyone who could steal the diamond and bring it back to him. Of course, the only people qualified for this type of work were thieves, and upon hearing the king's pronouncement, they all rushed to apply."

She gave him a perplexed look. "What does all this have to do with the maiden?" she asked.

He laughed. "Well, I was just about to explain that part, Miss Impatient. The maiden was a thief, too, you see. She'd been stealing the hearts of the men in the kingdom for years." At her skeptical look, he raised his hands defensively. "It's true - there was even a price on her head, believe it or not. She had finally bewitched the wrong bloke, and he was out for blood. But she didn't decide to join the quest to escape certain death. Nor did she care about the reward it would bring; although she grew up poor as a church mouse, she had no interest in worldly possessions. No, instead she wanted to chase the Heart for the grand adventure she would have while obtaining it. She was quite bored with her utterly predictable life as a siren, you see."

Despite the outrageous premise, Corrine found herself drawn in by the obvious symbolism and Harry's animated manner; he seemed totally caught up in his role as storyteller. He noted her interest and plunged ahead. "So, using her considerable charm, she commandeered the kingdom's fastest sailing ship, and had it manned with only the best and bravest sailors to be sure she would reach her destination safely. When they were halfway there, and over the deepest, most dangerous part of the sea, however, an enormous monster rose from the cold, dark depths."

She shivered slightly, unable to hide her distress from him; she knew it was just a story, but the thought of cold, dark water - so soon after her own ordeal - still alarmed her. Disconcerted, he reached out hastily to hold her hand in his own. "I'm sorry, my darling, I didn't mean to upset you," he said gently. "But this has a happy ending, I promise."

She nodded at him to keep going. "This sea creature was a kraken - a giant squid with serrated suckers. And it was hungry for human flesh - particularly for young female flesh. It clambered up onto the deck, seeking the girl with a single-minded fixation. The sailors were terrified; they had heard legends of the kraken, but had never confronted one in person. To a man, they fled the besieged ship, leaving the brave but panic-stricken maiden on the deck to meet her tragic fate."

Corrine raised an eyebrow. "Harry... are you sure this is going to end well?" she asked uneasily.

"Yes, because here comes the hero of the tale," he said with a twinkle in his eye. "As it turns out, there was another ship nearby. It belonged to the pirate king, who had long been chasing the kraken, looking to rid the world of its hideous and malevolent presence. The king was fearless, dashing, and of course, the most devastatingly handsome lad in all the lands." With that, he threw her his signature cocky grin, and she rolled her eyes and huffed in mock exasperation, motioning for him to continue. "Right - back to the story. Well, when the pirate king saw the kraken, he sailed for it immediately, and then - because he was both a boatman and a sailor, you understand - he catapulted onto the deck of the doomed ship with an oar just as the kraken grabbed the maiden in its tentacle."

"And what did he do?" she asked breathlessly, captivated as much by his style of storytelling as by the tale itself.

"He negotiated for her release - by offering himself in place of the maiden," he responded matter-of-factly.

She threw him a haughty glance. "I certainly hope the maiden refused the deal," she said tartly.

"Well, she tried, of course. She was a bit of a feisty lass, and despite her desperate situation she didn't appreciate being bargained for like a sack of grain. So she was disinclined to acquiesce to his request, and said so in no uncertain terms. But it was out of her hands anyway, because..." and here he paused again, "with one smooth motion, the pirate king drew his sword, Indefatigable, from its jeweled scabbard, and sliced off the tentacle holding the maiden. Then he leaped into the kraken's mouth - and was swallowed whole, sealing the bargain."

"No!" she gasped, horrified at the twist the story had taken. "Why would he do such a thing?"

"Well, he was taking risks, you see. You must remember that in his mind there was not a moment to lose. Besides," added Harry, "he had fallen in love with our heroine the moment he laid eyes on her, and he decided then and there that he would sacrifice anything - including his own life - just to keep her safe."

Corrine's heart stuttered in her chest. What was he saying, exactly? Was he telling her...?

But before she could ponder the implications of his words, he hurried on. "But the pirate king had one last trick up his sleeve. Indefatigable was forged from the finest, sharpest steel ever made, and as such, it was the only weapon in the world strong enough to slay a kraken. They're nearly indestructible, see, and only if you stab them in the heart - from the inside - can they be killed. So as the kraken was swallowing him, with the last of his strength the pirate king pushed the sword into his heart-" he mimed the motion with a swift thrust of his arm, "-and the kraken collapsed to the deck, dead as a doornail."

He smiled triumphantly at her. "And when our hero carved his way out of the kraken's stinking guts, the maiden was so overcome with relief and gratitude - and his virile good looks didn't hurt, either - that she too fell in love right on the spot, and pledged her smitten heart to him."

"Of course," she retorted, playing along. "Anyone could see that he was irresistible - even covered in kraken slime."

He burst out laughing. "Are you trying to hijack my story, Corrine?" he teased.

"No, Harry; I just thought it needed some... embellishment." The irony was not lost on him, and he laughed heartily again. "So what happened after that, then?" she urged, her curiosity getting the better of her.

"Well, he brought her back to his kingdom of rogues and thieves - a decent lot, really, just misunderstood-" At this point he paused and looked at her steadily. "And she forgot all about her quest and lived with him in his castle happily ever after, never having any desire to roam again."

Faintly, an alarm bell went off in the back of her head, but she ignored it. She clapped her hands in appreciation. "Bravo, Harry. That was a lovely story - and very self-serving, too," she noted slyly.

"Well, I may have added a few personal touches," he said modestly, "but it's a tale as old as time, I suppose: 'the corsair and the maiden fair / wild and free / were meant to be'." He grinned at his own silly bit of poetry and winked at her as if sharing a secret just between the two of them.

His story concluded at last, Harry spread his hands in a gesture of finality as he rose with a smile. Although his face was reluctant, his voice was firm as he said, "All right, Miss Donnelly, I'd better leave you to your rest now."

"But I'm not tired anymore," she pouted. "I want another story."

"You're insatiable, aren't you?" he teased. Then he said adamantly, "Pirate king's orders, though - and all on the sea are bound to obey." He finished with another wink.

She sketched a salute and grumbled, "Aye aye, sir," smiling to take the sting out of her protest.

Harry blew her a kiss - why he refused to give her a proper kiss, she couldn't guess - and after promising to return later, he turned to leave the room.

Despite his insistence, she was reluctant to let him go. She realized that this was the most contented and carefree they had both felt since... well, since the disaster had torn the world apart, and a sudden apprehension seized her. The last time she had been this happy was the night of the hooley, and now, like then, she didn't want the time to end, for fear that whatever would come after might separate them once again. She wanted to call out, to beg him to come back... to spend just a little more time with her. But she soon scoffed at her own ridiculous worries; nothing could come between them now - they had survived the sinking, after all, which meant that the worst was already behind them. Still, she had to suppress a yearning sigh as he closed the door; as much as she wanted him to stay, she couldn't let her own selfish demands impose on his time.

After he left, Corrine lay back on the pillow and thought over his tale again. The unmistakable parallels with their own story had her searching for hidden messages... and they weren't difficult to find. She was sure that, in a rather roundabout way, he was telling her how much she meant to him, and the conclusion made her feel warm all over. He loved her; he must - he had all but said it just now! Katie was right - what more did he have to do to prove himself to her?

She had already forgotten the brief sense of disquiet she had felt at the story's conclusion, which had seemed less like a happy ending and more like a warning.

* * *

Who can tell a story that incorporates Hornblower, Titanic (the movie), and Pirates of the Caribbean? Harry, of course ;) There were also some obscure Hornblower references in the previous chapter as well (covering the hulled ship with the fothered sail and the infamous deck hose scene, haha). That Harry is decades ahead of his time, yes?

And that cheeky line about taking a nap was taken from a quote from Daisy Minahan, who said Lowe told the ladies in his lifeboat to do just that the night of the sinking.

Actually, both Katie and Harry are right about how Corrine came to occupy Bisset's cabin. Harry did indeed insist on a private room for Corrine, so that she could heal from her trauma in solitude and comfort, without the presence of other passengers to disrupt her recovery. And Bisset, who happened to be standing near Rostron when Harry made his demand, gallantly offered his own bed for his fellow officer's girl (in real life, he actually did relinquish his cabin to a female survivor, as he states in his autobiography). For story purposes, Corrine needed to be alone, with no roommates... and as far as I could tell from Carpathia's deck plans, all the passenger staterooms have at least 2 beds, and only the officers' cabins are single berths. I chose Bisset's cabin for several reasons, the first being that its layout in the deck plan fit with my vision of her room. But also I wanted to draw a deliberate comparison between Titanic's second officer, with whom Harry has a contentious, antagonistic relationship, and the Carpathia's second officer, who respects and accepts Harry immediately.


	23. Chapter 22: Lights and Shadow

Hello, Dear Readers, I am back (and back on schedule as well!). Thank you for reading, for reviewing, and for generally being the most fabulous group of people on the planet ;)

Lowekey (love the name, by the way!), to answer your question, my next story won't be a romance per se. I've got a really messed up heroine in my head that's dying to have her story told. She's pretty much the opposite of Corrine in every way, and she doesn't need a relationship so much as she needs to discover her self-esteem and worth. And she'll get a chance to do that during the sinking (although she may have some help there). The story gets pretty dark in some places as well (although this one isn't always a picnic in the park either haha). But that's still a ways off - I'm not done with #harrine by a long shot!

Sam, I LOVE all your ideas! You really know your Titanic, too! If I weren't already past the sinking, I would try to incorporate some of it (although I still maintain that even if Corrine had seen Smith, she wouldn't have recognized him - she had never met him before, and the only reason she knew Murdoch's name is because Moody blurted it out at the end). But I just couldn't bring myself to write in a suicide, especially Murdoch's, even if it was historically plausible :(And we shall see if Corrine ever gets to meet the Lowes ;)

And Rosie, you already know I can't do this without your immeasurable support! I would totally be lost without you, love! This chapter is most definitely dedicated to you - both the 'light' part and the 'shadow' as well! :)

* * *

Corrine was awakened some time later by a knock on the cabin door. It was firm and precise - exactly two raps. She called out for whomever it was to enter, but her voice was still so weak she wasn't sure she was heard.

A moment's hesitation, and then the door opened.

Her eyes widened in shock, and she sat up in bed with a start. She couldn't believe what she was seeing. Second Officer Lightoller stood framed in the light seeping in from the doorway. He looked very different from those last terrible moments on the boat deck. She had never seen him without a cap before, and she noticed that his hair was sandy and thinning slightly. He wore a thick dark blue sweater and grey trousers, likely borrowed from some passenger on the Carpathia.

"Mr. Lightoller! You're alive!" she exclaimed, astonishment and something like joy coloring her voice at the sight of the senior officer. Equally as unexpected was the cheery nod he gave her in return, as if he were as delighted to see her as she was to see him. "How... how did you make it off the ship?" she blurted, awestruck. Then she remembered her manners. "Come in, please, come in," she said, beckoning to him.

He closed the door partway, leaving it slightly ajar, and crossed the room in long strides to stand beside her bed. He smiled and raised his hand, as if to ask for her patience. "All in good time, Miss Donnelly. But first - how are you?" His face radiated sincere concern, she noted with some surprise.

She gestured to her body. "I am alive," she said. "For now, that is enough. The doctor says I should regain my entire range of movement, and there seems to be no permanent damage. I'm very lucky," she admitted, her voice trailing off into nothing as she thought about the hundreds who weren't, who had suffered and perished while they still lived.

The memory of that night washed over both of them, and in that moment it felt like the entire sea of the dead was between them once again. She couldn't speak for a long moment.

Lightoller, too, paused, his expression haunted. After a time, he said quietly, "I heard you were able to survive in that waterlogged collapsible - the one that Mr. Lowe picked up."

"Yes. I was... in pretty bad shape at the time, but Harry was able to revive me. I'm told it was just in the nick of time, though. My lungs had stopped..." She paused, struggling, unable to go on. "I don't remember that part, anyway." She gave a choked laugh, waving her hand as if trying to dismiss the ordeal altogether. "I woke up here, in this bed, and that's all I know."

Lightoller had been staring off into the distance and nodding along with her words, and despite his aloof appearance, she could tell that he was listening carefully. But when she finished, he glanced down at her and fidgeted with the hem of his sweater, looking uncomfortable for the first time. "I suppose all this could have been avoided if I had just held that boat a little longer," he said casually.

He looked away from her then, and Corrine surmised from his demeanor that he felt at least partly responsible for her condition. That surprised her, and she immediately rushed to allay his concerns. "You had no choice, Mr. Lightoller," she insisted gently. "Those men on the deck were desperate. One wrong move from them would've buckled the boat, and Harry would have been lost-" Here she stopped, the scenario too terrible to contemplate. "I'm just glad you ordered him to stay put," she said at last. "The eejit was about to jump out, you know." She gave a small smile at the memory.

Her humor was quickly replaced by chagrin, and she bit her lip, blushing at her impropriety in the presence of Harry's superior officer. She couldn't quite believe she was talking to this formerly intimidating man in such a casual way - and offering him comfort, even. But then again, the old rules of formality and hierarchy didn't really matter anymore, at least not to her. The frigid waters of the North Atlantic, it seemed, were a great equalizer.

And it appeared that he felt the same. When his eyes lifted to hers once again, they were filled with relief at her words... and with something else as well. "You almost took a header off that ship after I sent his boat away without you," he said quietly. "And then he organized a rescue effort. Because of you. You know that, right?"

"I do," she whispered, and those two small words, heavy with meaning, hung between them for a minute.

Finally, Lightoller took a deep breath, holding her gaze steadily with his own. "I was... wrong, Miss Donnelly," he finally said, and it seemed as if he were dragging the words out of his chest. "About him, and about you, too. That's hard for me to admit, you know," he chuckled. "But it seems a man can do his duty - and then some - even while romancing a pretty young lass across the Atlantic."

His words - the admission and the compliment to Harry both - stunned her, although she tried to hide it. This was an entirely different man from the inflexible stickler for protocol she had met a few days before. The sinking had not only changed his mind about Harry, it also seemed to have altered his personality completely. This Lightoller was... almost human, she reflected wryly.

That revelation was comforting, and viewing him in this new and different light made what she had to say next even easier. "It wasn't just Harry who saved my life that night, Mr. Lightoller. I owe my life to you as well. If you hadn't sent me over to the starboard side, I never would have been close enough to that collapsible to reach it after I jumped into the water. I would have frozen just like everyone else. And before that, when you threw Thomas - I mean, those two awful men - away from the lifeboat... I think you kept them from knocking me right into the sea." She stared into his eyes, needing him to understand what his actions meant to her. "Even in the midst of all that chaos, you took the time to look after me. I will always be grateful to you."

He waved his hand, brushing off her words. "It was nothing," he said gruffly. "Just doing my duty." He was clearly uncomfortable with the praise, and out of respect for him, she let the matter drop. She hoped, though, that her words would resonate with him later, and that he would know just how much she deeply appreciated what he had done for her.

He took a deep breath, as if he were about to bring up a painful subject, and then surged ahead. "Did you... were you able to see what happened to Will- er, Mr. Murdoch after the boat floated off the deck?"

A sudden sob rose in her throat at the mention of his name, and she swallowed thickly. "The last I saw of him and the younger officer-"

"Mr. Moody," Lightoller offered.

"Yes... they were both in the water... struggling to help passengers into the collapsible..." Her voice broke at last, and she was unable to continue.

He nodded his head. "That sounds like Will, alright," Lightoller admitted with a melancholy smile. Then he hung his head, and kept it lowered for quite some time. She thought she saw tears glimmering in his eyelashes.

"He was a brave man, true to the last," she choked out finally.

"Indeed he was," he replied unevenly. "A real hero."

She laughed through her tears, remembering. "And persistent, too. All the times I jumped out of his boats, and he kept trying to save me anyway."

He met her eyes again at last. "Aye?" he asked curiously, a faint grin on his lips.

"You want to hear the whole story?" she asked.

He nodded.

So she told him of her escape from the doom of the third class by climbing up the crew ladder with her little group. He raised his eyebrows and smiled at that, seemingly impressed, but sobered as she spoke of her frantic search for Harry on the boat deck, and how Murdoch had grabbed her and tried to toss her into his boat on the starboard side. "But I couldn't leave Harry. You understand now, right?" she said, her eyes searching his.

He nodded again, motioning for her to continue.

"So I jumped out and ran over to the port side, where you were loading those boats. And, well... you saw what happened after that," she said lamely. She didn't want to relive the horror and pain of being stranded on the boat deck, watching Harry being lowered to the sea without her. She picked up the thread of her tale at the loading of the collapsible, where she encountered Murdoch once again. She left out the part about seeing the White Star Line executive take her seat, but emphasized that Murdoch tried his best to get her to stay in a boat - only to watch her leave it once again.

"When he next saw me, we were both in the water. I couldn't move, or breathe, because the water felt like knives, stabbing me all over-" Instantly, the air rushed from her lungs and an involuntary shiver wracked her body as she recalled the never-ending agony and unfathomable pain of the ocean's icy grip. Lightoller's face remained impassive, but she thought she detected a slight tremor run through him as well. She took a deep, calming breath and pushed on; he deserved to know that his friend had died an honorable death. "But suddenly Mr. Murdoch was there at my side. He saved me from a man that was trying to steal my lifebelt, and then pushed me toward the boat..." A sob escaped her throat. "I didn't see him again after that," she whispered.

Once again, the room was silent for some time as they tried to process the enormous tragedy of that night. She blinked back her tears, wishing she could have done something to help the man who had given so much to so many.

When she was finally able to look up, she saw that Lightoller had read the grief in her heart, and was gazing at her with kind, sympathetic eyes. With surprise, she realized how easy it had been to open up to him about her ordeal. He was perhaps the only other person she knew who could understand what that desperate struggle to survive was like. She hadn't even told the girls or Harry much about what happened after she entered the water, and they hadn't asked. Maybe, she realized belatedly, it was because Harry in particular couldn't bear to know the details.

"Now it's your turn, Mr. Lightoller," she said gently, bringing them both back to the present. "Tell me how you survived."

So he did. He had been able to cut down the collapsible right after he flipped her over the roof, he said. Unfortunately, it fell to the deck upside down. Then the water surged, and he dived into the sea, only to be sucked down into a ventilator. He was pinned against the grating and was only freed when a boiler exploded deep in the ship, blowing him back to the surface. He was sucked down one more time as the ship sank, but as he resurfaced somehow, he found himself floating next to the very collapsible he had helped to free.

"I had just grabbed one of the ropes attached to the boat when the forward funnel fell. It landed so close to us that I was flipped head over heels by the wave it made, which pushed us away from the ship. After that, I made my way on top of the overturned boat, which had a few other survivors clinging to it. I took charge, making the men stand and shift their weight to prevent the boat from capsizing."

"So you stood on top of an upside-down boat the entire night?" she asked incredulously.

He shrugged modestly. "I did. And as the boat lost its pocket of air slowly through the night, I saw the men fall off one by one..." His voice trailed away.

"They say the same happened in my boat," she said quietly. "Out of around thirty, only about a baker's dozen made it off alive."

"I hear I have your Harry to thank for my rescue as well, in a way," he admitted. "It was one of the boats in his flotilla that plucked us from the water. If they hadn't been in the right place at the right time, we all would have perished."

She gave him a warm smile. "Mr. Lightoller, I am very, very glad that that didn't happen."

He smiled right back at her. "I can say the same to you, Miss Donnelly. I was well pleased to hear you had made it."

"Truly, Mr. Lightoller, after all we have been through, I insist that you must call me Corrine."

He reached out his big hand and took hers, giving it a firm shake. "Then please, Corrine, call me Charles. Well met - at last." And at that, he laughed, a big, hearty booming sound. She joined in, marveling at how this man had become a sort of guardian angel, and, somewhat improbably, a friend.

At the sound of their laughter, the door opened again. This time, Harry stood in it.

The change in the atmosphere was immediate. Lightoller dropped her hand and took a step back from the bed, clasping his hands behind his back. Strange... she almost thought she read a certain level of respect, even deference, in the older man's demeanor that had never been there before in Harry's presence.

Harry nodded at Lightoller, who nodded back. "I was just on my way out after paying my respects to Miss Donnelly-"

"Corrine," she corrected again. She saw Harry's eyebrows raise at that.

"-Miss... Corrine... and now I will take my leave. Cheerio." He went to touch the brim of his cap, realized it was missing, and dropped his hand awkwardly. He maneuvered around Harry and was soon gone.

Harry closed the door, his eyes sparkling with mirth. "He's been asking to see you ever since he learned you survived." He winked at her. "I think he might be a little sweet on you."

For some reason, the thought amused her. "Not likely," she smiled. "We were just trading stories on who had the worst collapsible the night of the sinking." She cocked an eyebrow at him. "Besides, are you afraid of a little competition?" she asked playfully.

He stalked toward the bed slowly. "Oh I don't feel threatened at all," he drawled, deliberately drawing out the thick Welsh accent she adored. He reached the edge of the bed, and his voice lowered to a purr. Corrine had gone very still, and he leaned over her, arms propped on either side of her body, his lips nearly brushing hers. "Because I don't have anything to worry about, do I?"

Her breath caught in her throat as she met his intense gaze. She was head over heels for this man, and she knew it was written all over her face. She tried to come up with some witty retort, but her mind was perfectly blank. Her body, on the other hand...

Oh, she burned for him. She wanted his lips on hers again, gentle but insistent, parting them... and then the feel of his hands roaming her body... She wondered dazedly what it would feel like if he caressed her bare breasts, her thighs, her-

Her ragged breathing gave her away. His eyes, which had been almost closed, flicked to hers, and he pulled back slightly. Taking a deep breath, he gathered his composure. "I think," he enunciated slowly, "that this is not the time or place for us to... act on our feelings."

Coherent thought still evaded her. Even if she had been able to think, she wouldn't have been able to shove words through the heart which had somehow crept up to her throat. She nodded dumbly, not because she agreed, but because his eyes had once again taken on that guarded look that told her the discussion was closed.

Briskly, he said, "Well, my darling, I bring good news." She knew he was trying to change the subject, to distract her. Fortunately, it worked; she pushed down her desire, as well as her disappointment - and slight annoyance - that he still wouldn't kiss her, curious to see what he had to say.

"Dr. Millionaire told me that you are healing quite nicely. In fact, you have surpassed his expectations. I do believe he said you may keep your legs after all - if you get up and start walking."

She groaned and flopped back on the pillow. This was not the good news she was hoping to hear.

"The good news," he said with a wicked grin, "is that I am going to help you. In fact, I swear that I will be glued to your side the entirety of the way to New York." This last was said solemnly, a hand over his heart.

Her own heart leaped at this proclamation. Surely he knew what he was doing to her, right? And with a promise like that, she couldn't refuse. She sighed. "Fine. I will have to dress, though. I can't go outside in a borrowed nightgown. But speaking of, where are my own clothes?"

He waved a hand to the corner. "They've been washed and dried, but the dress you wore that night is ripped... probably happened when you were trying to get in that boat..." His voice grew faint for a moment, then he continued matter-of-factly, "Fortunately, one of the Carpathia's passengers has kindly lent you this." He walked over to the wardrobe and pulled out a green velvet tea dress. She gasped when she saw it. She had only ever seen these types of dresses on first class women, and it looked nothing like her ordinary cotton day dresses. He brought it over to her for inspection, and she fingered the hand-beaded detailing with wonder. "The lady who offered it is about your size," he explained, "and she thought... well, that you might want something nice to wear for the remainder of the voyage."

Her eyes stung, both from the beauty of the dress and from the generosity of a stranger who would offer to let her borrow such an exquisite object. She nodded. "It's... lovely. I would like to thank her in person, if you will point her out to me."

He agreed, and she held out her hand. "Will you help me stand?"

Laughing, he came to the bed. "I'll do better than that," he said, and scooped her up in his arms.

She squealed as he twirled her around once, and she clung tightly to him, face pressed against his neck. He stayed there like that for a moment, as if savoring the feel of her against him, and then he gently set her down on her feet. When she began wobbling unsteadily, he wrapped his hands securely around her waist until she regained her balance. She blushed in embarrassment, knowing her weakness in his presence was due as much to her feelings for him as it was to her physical state. She had known this man a little over a week, and she found that half the time she was still unable to keep her knees from shaking when she was around him.

Now that she was up and about, however, she realized that was in desperate need of a wash. She probably smelled terrible, and dried seawater still crusted her skin and hair. She pulled away from him and laughed self-consciously. "I'd better get cleaned up before I put on this dress, or I'll ruin it," she said apologetically.

He nodded. "I'll give you a moment, then - but only a moment," he teased. Then he eyed the dress again. "Do you need me to help with the corset when you're finished?" He grinned suggestively. "I've fastened a few in my time, you know."

No sooner did the sentence leave his lips than the room seemed to turn to ice. Corrine felt all the blood drain from her face as she stared at him wide-eyed, nausea suddenly blooming in her belly as she realized what that meant.

In all this time it had never occurred to her to wonder about the women that had come before her. And yet, with that one careless statement, he had opened her eyes to her own ignorance. Worse still was the casual detachment with which he spoke, as if these affairs were a commonplace occurrence, which enhanced the queer sense of betrayal she felt. Unbidden questions began stirring in her brain. Who... when... where... how many... She wanted to know...she didn't want to know. The thought of Harry... her Harry... in the arms of other women... Her gut twisted with a sudden stab of jealousy, and she fought for control of her emotions, her vision becoming suspiciously blurry. She had to look away and take a deep breath to hide her devastated expression.

Immediately, he realized the mistake he'd made, and his own eyes widened in horror. "Oh, Corrine, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean... I mean, I never..." His voice trailed off, as if realizing that his words weren't going to close the sudden hole he had opened in her heart.

She forced herself to turn back and meet his eyes steadily. "It's fine," she said calmly. He flinched at the pain reflected in her expression, but she continued, with as much dignity as she could muster, "And to answer your question: no, I don't need help. I haven't worn a corset in two years."

She turned away from his stricken face and made to head toward the washbasin. She staggered a bit but managed to grab the bed frame and regain her balance. When she sensed his approach, she waved him off dismissively. "I'll be fine. Please... just let me be, Harry." She resolutely faced away from him until she heard the sound of his retreating footsteps and the creak of the door as he gently opened and closed it.


	24. Chapter 23: Different Worlds

Hello, dear readers! I'm so glad you all were happy to see Lovely Lightoller again :) As you know, he's got a special place in my heart, too - and the story's not done with him yet. Love hearing from you, as always - hope you all keep reading! And Rosie - thank you my darling for the inspiration this week ;)

* * *

Corrine had to admit, washing up felt grand. Rinsing all the salt from the sea out of her hair made her feel fresh and reborn. She scrubbed her body and hair multiple times with the soap as best she could, and then spent a long time with her head under the running water, reveling in its warmth. She was pretty sure she was never going to take heat for granted again in her life.

Still, despite the relief she felt from scouring away the grime of that terrible night, Harry's words echoed over and over in his mind: '...fastened a few in my time...' She pressed her palms to her eyes to rid herself of the unwanted images his glib comment had unwillingly conjured.

Stop it, she scolded herself. What, did she expect him to be chaste? He had a life before her!

No; she just hadn't expected that it would cut so deeply to be reminded of that. Nor did she expect him to, well... brag about it. Or rub her face in it.

Angrily, she yanked the tap, shutting off the water. She grabbed a towel and hurriedly dried herself, then wrapped her hair in it. She opened the door and peeked out into the corridor.

No Harry. Smart move, lad, she thought.

She closed the door and walked back to the bed, looking down at the dress. Although some of her earlier excitement had faded with Harry's remark, she thought the dress was beautiful, and she still looked forward to wearing it. She scrounged in the pile of clothes in the corner until she located her laundered undergarments and then put them on. But she found that the exertion of standing while she cleaned herself, as well as the varied emotions of the past hour, had exhausted her. Utterly spent, she lay back, hair fanned out on the pillow behind her, and fell asleep.

When she woke again, Harry was in his usual place in the chair by the bed. He wasn't asleep, though. He was watching her warily, his right knee jiggling nervously.

Too late, she realized that she was nearly naked, and she blushed. She pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. She was sure he had gotten an eyeful while she was dozing. But he looked steadily into her eyes, and said, "I want you to know that that was the barmiest thing I think I've ever said, Corrine. None of that-" he waved his hand dismissively, "-before... it didn't mean anything to me at all. And I never should have been so crass. Christ, the last thing I want to do is hurt you."

She stiffened involuntarily. Nothing about it being not true, or an exaggeration on his part, just an admission that he shouldn't have said it. Good God, she thought, exasperated, did he have to be so brutally honest all the time?

"I thought you said you didn't have a girl in every port," she blurted before she could stop herself. Oh, why couldn't she just let this be?

"I didn't- I mean, I don't, Corrine." He exhaled in frustration. "That's the truth. But what is also the truth is that although I have been with other women before, it wasn't anything serious," he said softly. Not like this, he left unsaid, the words hanging between them.

She felt her heart thaw, just a little, at his earnest admission. His earlier comment still stung, but she supposed in his mind, honesty was more important than any hurt feelings that may result. And besides, in the face of the enormous tragedy they both endured, her discomfort at his words was insignificant.

She gave him a hesitant smile. "Consider the entire incident forgotten, then," she said lightly. He frowned slightly, as if he didn't quite believe her words, but let it be.

He watched as she teased out the knots in her long hair with the hairbrush - borrowed, like everything else around her. He looked as if he were going to offer assistance, thought better of it, and stayed silent. When she had finished, she slowly got to her feet, picked up the dress, and studied it. "I'll... I'll need help with the buttons in the back, if you're willing," she said shyly. He nodded, his eyes carefully looking everywhere but at her body. Hastily, she stepped into her petticoat, then the dress, and slid it up over her shoulders. She turned wordlessly and he quickly fastened the buttons. After he stepped away, she sat on the bed, pulled on her stockings and boots, and then stood.

When she turned back around to him, he looked more relaxed, as if he were relieved that she was dressed at last. And then his eyes widened in appreciation as they wandered over her. "My God, Corrine, you look stunning. That dress really suits you; it brings out your eyes..." Again, he looked as if he wanted to reach for her, but held back.

He stood there, uncomfortable and uncertain, for a moment. Why was he so hesitant all of a sudden? Was he afraid she was still angry about his gaffe? Pushing down her still-unsettled feelings, she gave him a sweet and tremulous smile, hoping to reassure him and let him know that all was well, and then turned away to the small mirror. After she finished pinning her hair up in a coil, she turned around to see that he was still staring at her, eyes full of regret. "Look, Corrine, I... I don't want it to be awkward between us. Can you forgive me, for earlier?" The look he gave her was almost pleading, and it melted her heart.

This time, her smile was radiant and genuine. "Of course, Harry."

He held out his arm. "Then, please, allow me escort a lady for a walk on the promenade," he intoned formally.

She looked around the room. "And what lady might that be?" she joked.

He laughed, and the relief on his face was palpable. "My favorite - and only - girl, of course." He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and led her out the door.

* * *

It was strange, being outside again. The sun was bright, but the air was still chilled. She pulled closer to the warmth of Harry's body as they slowly made their way down the Carpathia's bridge deck. Their rescue ship was much more modest than Titanic. The decks were narrower, the rooms smaller, and the fixtures and woodwork older, but everything gleamed and shone, a product of the obvious care and pride of her crew. And, most importantly, the doddering old steamer was steady, her decks level. She heaved a sigh of gratitude at that, and realized that she would never again take for granted the proper workings of a ship.

Harry, of course, seemed utterly at ease, even though on this ship he was technically just a passenger. He nodded greetings at the Carpathia's crew, and inquired after their captain. All of the men tipped their hats at him, and respect shone clearly in their eyes. They knew who he was, then, and what he had done. It made her heart swell with pride, to know that he was recognized and admired by so many.

He looked down at her. "Where would you like to go, Corrine?"

"I want to see Katie and Kate," she said decisively. "Can you take me down to the steerage deck?"

"Of course," he replied. He led her to a stairwell, which they descended carefully, her free hand clutching the railing as much as her still-injured shoulder would allow. Once at the bottom, he guided her to a large room at the center of the ship.

It appeared that the room had once been either a general gathering area or a dining saloon, but had since been serving as an emergency dormitory for the third-class Titanic passengers that had managed to escape the sunken ship. There were tables, bedrolls, blankets, clothing, and dishes strewn everywhere. Although the room was messy and disordered, she was still able to appreciate that it wasn't nearly as packed with people as it should have been. With a pang, she wondered how many of those she had celebrated with the night before the sinking were still alive.

Fortunately, she was soon distracted from her mournful thoughts. As soon as they entered, she heard a squeal from the corner, and saw Katie flying toward her from where she had been sitting with Kate and their new Finnish friends. Harry stepped in front of Corrine instinctively, trying to ensure that her exuberant friend didn't bowl her over in her zeal. But Katie sidestepped him fluidly and threw her arms around Corrine's neck, making her stagger slightly. Harry cleared his throat disapprovingly, but she ignored him. "What are you doing down here, love?" she cried.

Corrine laughed. "Doctor's orders - I have to exercise. And, I missed you girls." She threw a loving glance at Katie, and then at Kate, who had trailed behind.

Kate touched her arm - unlike Katie, she hadn't missed Harry's warning look - and smiled warmly at her. "You're looking much better, Corrine."

"And beautiful, too," Katie declared. "You're a right dinger in that fancy dress," she continued admiringly, nudging her.

Corrine blushed, smiling, and then looked behind Kate, her eyes growing wide. "Danny!" she said with surprise. She hadn't realized that the Irish lad from their group had made it off the ship; she was sure he had been left behind, a casualty of the 'women and children' rule. "I'm so happy to see you alive and well!"

Daniel Buckley smiled shyly and came up from behind Kate. "I have you to thank, Miss Corrine," he said softly. He reached out and took her hand in his. "I never would have found my way up to that deck without you." He gave her hand a squeeze, his eyes shining with feeling.

She heard an inarticulate noise beside her. Harry was looking down at her hand, brow furrowed, a frown on his face. Hurriedly, Danny released her and stood next to Kate, putting his arm around her deliberately. She saw Harry's shoulders relax slightly.

Looking from Kate to Danny, Corrine realized that she had missed more than just the boat that night. She gave her friend a tender smile, telling her with her eyes that she knew and understood. Kate grinned and winked back, to Corrine's delight.

She turned to Harry. She had been surprised to see that flash of jealousy, but it amused her all the same. As if she could ever belong to anyone but him! She smiled indulgently as she prepared to make introductions. "Harry, this is-"

Before she could finish, she heard a keening cry from her right. A woman dragging two children behind her was making her way toward them. She was speaking rapidly in a foreign tongue, her eyes locked on Corrine's face.

Corrine gasped. It was the mother from the collapsible - the one she had helped the night of the sinking. Again, Harry tried to intervene, but to his consternation the woman shoved him aside and embraced Corrine tightly. The woman wept freely on her shoulder, and Corrine felt her own eyes fill with tears as well. "Thank you," she said in heavily accented English. "Thank you."

Corrine patted her back. "I'm glad you and your boys are safe," she murmured. She wasn't sure if the woman could understand her words, but she hoped she understood the sentiment behind them.

As the mother pulled back to present her children, the Finnish girls came up to express their appreciation as well. Others were eventually drawn over, too. One man, who introduced himself as Olaus, said that he had been in the damaged collapsible with her. "And I hear you finally found your Harry," he said, a twinkle in his eye. Harry gave him a nod of acknowledgement. Olaus introduced her to another man named August, who apparently spoke no English, explaining that he had also been in their boat and was glad to see she had survived. She recognized him as the man who had helped her after the boat capsized the second time, and gave him a thankful smile. Soon Harry and Corrine were surrounded by a group of grateful, happy, chatting people.

After she had finished greeting everyone, she turned to see Harry gazing at her with admiration and awe. "Seems like you are quite popular down here, Corrine. You're truly a hero to these people," he said in wonder.

"I told you," Katie said smugly.

* * *

They visited with the steerage passengers a bit longer, until Harry, worried about Corrine's stamina, suggested that they return abovedecks to her room. After bidding everyone a warm farewell, they ascended the steps and found their way to the promenade of the shelter deck.

She had been reluctant to go back to her room immediately; the warmth of the sun, and the absence of the class restrictions and company policies that had kept them separated on Titanic, made her want to linger longer in public with him. So she prevailed upon him to delay their return to the bridge deck while she rested for a bit in the fresh air. He acquiesced, and they sat on one of the few remaining empty benches lining the deck. She leaned her head against him, the brisk breeze loosening tendrils from her coil to brush gently against his face, and sighed contentedly as he wrapped his arm around her waist. Despite the circumstances that had brought them to this ship, the coziness of their present situation made her almost feel like they were on vacation. She closed her eyes and imagined that they had just been married and were on their way to America to start a new life together, and that he'd never leave her side again...

She felt him stiffen suddenly beside her, and her eyes flew open.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Lowe. It is so lovely to see you again."

The simpering voice belonged to a tall, stately young woman with brown hair twisted in a similar coil to Corrine's. Despite her eclectic clothing, likely a result of hasty dressing during the night of the sinking, she exuded an unquestionable air of class and money; her eyes, heavy-lidded in her round face, had a look of cultivated worldliness despite her young age. She was gazing down at Harry with a look that Corrine couldn't quite place.

Harry rose, pulling Corrine up with him, and tipped his hat to her. "Good day, miss...?"

"Ryerson. My mother, my sister, my brother and I, along with our servants, were on one of the boats in your flotilla. I wanted to tell you how utterly grateful we are that you took care of us the night of the sinking." She gave him a small, cryptic smile.

He swallowed, and said, "I... I apologize, but I don't remember meeting you before. Were you in my boat, number 14?"

"No, I was in number 4, with Mrs. Astor, Mrs. Thayer, and Mrs. Widener." She continued to gaze at him expectantly.

He nodded. "Right. We met up with your boat right when... well, when the ship disappeared." He paused, his brow furrowing. "Wasn't Perkis in charge of your boat, though? He's the one you should be thanking, not me. I had very little to do with number 4, really."

"No, Mr. Lowe," she said earnestly. "We all saw what you did that night, and... well, we were... impressed." The way she said it made Corrine uncomfortable, as if there was some implication that Corrine wasn't grasping. She shifted on her feet, suddenly feeling confused and awkward.

For the first time, the young woman seemed to notice Corrine standing beside him. She eyed her up and down appraisingly, taking in the incongruity of the expensive dress, disarrayed hair, and worn leather boots. A faint frown flitted across her brow as she processed it, and then her eyes cleared, and she turned back to Harry as if Corrine were not even there.

"I just want to let you know, sir, that if you ever need anything - anything at all - please do not hesitate to contact me - my family, that is. I owe you so much." Her smile this time was vulpine.

"Thank you, miss, that is most kind, but I assure you I do not deserve any... accolades." Despite the chill in the air, he was perspiring. "And now I must beg your leave. My fiancee needs her rest." Corrine hid her reaction as he took her arm. He nodded at Miss Ryerson politely and gently steered Corrine in the direction of the first-class dining room. She could still feel the woman's eyes on them as he opened the door for her.

* * *

There is absolutely no evidence indicating that Susan Ryerson would have behaved this way. There was a rather curious moment during the American inquiry when Smith asks Lowe if he had a conversation with Mrs. Ryerson on the Carpathia. Why he chose to single out this particular family, and no other, is unclear, nor does he explain the reason for the question. Nonetheless, Miss Ryerson's actions here were simply for dramatic effect.

As for Corrine's friends in third class, we already know Olaus Abelseth (Collapsible A) and Daniel Buckley (Boat 14 in this story), but just for the curious, the others are as follows:

Finnish girls: Anna Sjoblum and unnamed friend, saved in Boat 16

Woman with 2 boys: Syrian refugee Aminah Mubarik and sons Jirjis and Halim, saved in Collapsible C

August Wennerstrom: saved in Collapsible A


	25. Chapter 24: The Hero

Hello once again lovelies, here's another update for you! Thank you to my loyal readers and reviewers, as always - Lowekey and Fiction.2020, have I told you lately that I love you for your consistent and supportive reviews?! TheBlackCrownedQueen: WOW, I am honored! Thank you for thinking so highly of my story, and for saying the absolute nicest things - you are too generous! And to my very special guest reader - I very much look forward to Saturdays now, too! I get to post another chapter - and read your lovely reviews :) I am so honored by the support and the interest you have in this story! And Rosie... as always, I just love ya to death, you know that ;) Thanks for getting me inspired to write a whole new angle to this story - without you, I think it truly would be incomplete!

This chapter is more gasoline thrown on a simmering flame. And we may have an inferno soon ;)

* * *

Once inside the dining saloon, Corrine looked up at Harry, troubled, but he studiously avoided her eyes. "Er... perhaps it might be better to stop in here for a bit, Corrine. It's... crowded out there."

She glanced around the room to which they had escaped, confused. Like the third-class dining room below, this space, too, was a sort of gathering area for survivors - the small steamer was, after all, bursting at the seams with the addition of over seven hundred extra people - only the population in this area was decidedly more upper-crust. And it was certainly busier than the deck had been. So his argument that it was less crowded didn't hold water; he obviously had other motives for coming in here.

What had happened out there, anyway? She had a feeling she had missed something important. And she hadn't even had time to process that he had called her his fiancee. That was the second time he had done so; he had also called her his betrothed on Titanic, when they had the altercation with that couple on the boat deck. What did he mean by it? Was he serious? He did seem to bandy the idea around quite a bit...

But before she could question him about either their odd encounter with Miss Ryerson outside or his decidedly unexpected endearment, his eyes lit up. "There is one person I want you to meet here, Corrine." He took her hand and led her to a woman almost as tiny as Corrine herself. Her arm was in a sling, and she wore an evening gown, incongruous in this setting - and yet, she appeared totally comfortable and at ease in it. Although not conventionally pretty, she had a vibrancy and charm to her that was apparent even when obscured by an obvious shroud of grief.

As they approached, the woman's eyes widened. Without waiting for an introduction, she blurted, "My goodness... you're the waif that he pulled off the sinking boat, aren't you?" She gave Corrine the once-over, but it didn't feel judgmental; instead, she was gazing at her with frank admiration. "Harold very nearly fell apart when he found you, you know."

Harry blushed deeply at that. "Corrine, I want to introduce you to Mrs. Harris," he said, turning to her. "She was in the collapsible I was towing. Mrs. Harris, this is Corrine Donnelly, my best girl."

Well, that answers that question, thought Corrine tartly. Now I'm back to being his girl.

"Please, call me Rene," she said, and reached out a hand to shake Corrine's. "Your young man is quite the hero, you know," she said effusively.

Beside her, Harry looked uncomfortable. "I wish you would stop saying that, Mrs. Harris."

"And I wish you would call me Rene," she reminded him none too gently. Corrine decided that she liked this formidable, sassy woman quite a lot. "Harold is too modest," she stage-whispered at Corrine. "He was very brave, and most definitely saved our boat from capsizing and sinking."

Intrigued, Corrine was about to ask for the details when a rich, mellow voice behind them said, "Mr. Lowe! I've been looking everywhere for you!" Corrine and Harry turned together to see an attractive middle-aged lady smiling at him.

"Miss Compton," Harry said warmly. "How are you? And how is your mother?"

"She's well... physically... but I was wondering if you could speak to her for a minute, Mr. Lowe. She's having a difficult time accepting Alexander's... demise." Her eyes grew sad, and she swallowed hard. "Maybe... if you could tell her that it was probably quick, and that he didn't suffer..."

Harry's eyes widened imperceptibly, and Corrine knew what he was thinking: that unless he was killed mercifully by falling debris or by drowning, his death was probably prolonged and very painful. Nonetheless, he replied, "I... if you think it would help her, Miss Compton, I would be happy to do so." With an apologetic look at Corrine, he followed the woman across the room.

Corrine stood there awkwardly, not knowing what to do or where to go and feeling quite out of place, until Mrs. Harris said kindly, "Would you like a cup of tea, Corrine? I would love to chat and learn more about you."

"Oh, I don't want to bother you-" Corrine began, but Mrs. Harris interrupted.

"Please - it would be my pleasure, and besides, I could use the distraction."

She said it matter-of-factly, but her tone couldn't completely hide her pain. Corrine's heart ached for her. She had deduced that her husband had gone down with the ship, and despite her outward bravado, Corrine knew that she had to be broken inside. She smiled at the older woman. "In that case, I'd love to, Mrs. Harris," she said gently.

"Rene," she said sternly.

Corrine laughed, marveling at this woman's resilience in the face of her grief, and dutifully complied.

* * *

The two women ended up having a lovely conversation over tea. Rene was very interested in learning the details of her unlikely survival, and listened avidly as she described leaping off the deck of the sinking ship and her fight to stay in the collapsible. Corrine then told her the story of how she and Harry met, and in turn, Rene shared her first meeting with Henry B. Harris, the husband she called Harry: "He was caressing the back of my neck at a matinee. I turned around to give him a piece of my mind, but I couldn't do it - he had the kindest eyes and the most gentle smile..." Her wistful smile turned tearful, and they cried together over her loss, Corrine putting her arm tentatively around her shoulders.

They kept the conversation light after that, and Corrine learned that Rene studied law before meeting Harry, and that currently, she served as her husband's most trusted advisor in his work as a theatrical manager and producer. They were soon joined by another woman, who Rene introduced as Mrs. Futrelle. The two of them were old friends who were coincidentally traveling on Titanic at the same time, although not together - and both had lost their husbands in the sinking, which had strengthened the already close bond between them. Mrs. Futrelle, who also insisted that Corrine call her by her first name, was a sweet woman with an accent Corrine could barely understand. Rene explained that she was a Southern belle, and Corrine hid her ignorance by nodding knowingly.

She was surprised to realize that she was genuinely enjoying her time with these women. It was a relief to know that not all rich women were as oppressive and domineering as the ones she had met in Southampton and on Titanic. She wouldn't even mind working for one of these women as a maid. Shyly, she told them so. To her mortification, they both laughed loudly at the idea.

Noticing her embarrassment, they hastened to explain. "Corrine, don't sell yourself short - you can do much better than being a maid to an eccentric woman like me," Rene said.

"I didn't mean to insult you, child," May reassured her. "It's just that we live very modestly; my husband Jack is a mystery writer- well, he was a writer..." She trailed off, and her eyes welled with fresh tears. "I'm sorry - it's still so new; I just can't seem to get used to the idea that he's gone."

"I'm so sorry for your loss," said Corrine sincerely, and patted her hand. "I can't imagine your grief."

May wiped her eyes with a handkerchief and sighed. "Thank you, dear. There will never be another like Jack," she said wistfully. "He was a good man - the best man I've ever known, and took such good care of me and the children."

"And Harry was the light of my life - my Harry, that is," Rene amended, looking at Corrine. "I don't know what I'm going to do without him." She looked down at her hands, for the first time that day seeming small and lost.

They were distracted by the sight of Corrine's own Harry, who was weaving his way back through the crowd, headed in their direction. His face lit up when he saw Corrine, and she beckoned him over. Just as he reached them, however, a stunningly beautiful woman swooped in and said to him, "There you are! I simply must speak with the man that everyone is calling the true hero of the Titanic disaster!" Harry flinched, but turned toward her politely.

"It looks like you're staying with us a little while longer while Mr. Lowe receives his medals," May said, dabbing at the last of her tears with her handkerchief. She put her arm around Corrine and winked.

"Who is that woman?" Corrine whispered to Rene.

"That's Mrs. Carter," Rene replied in a low voice so that they wouldn't be overheard. "Her husband was saved, too - and rumor has it that she's none too happy about it."

Corrine's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Why not?" she asked, bewildered.

"Again, only rumor - but it seems he's a bit of a ne'er-do-well. Billy Carter's father is a coal and iron baron. Billy, on the other hand, has devoted his life to being a sportsman and a scion of Philadelphia society," Rene explained.

"I can see why Lucile pounced on your Harold," added May tartly. "Women prefer their men to have a little... gumption."

Both Rene and May chuckled softly, and she laughed along with them, although she was starting to feel a bit disconcerted by all the idolization these wealthy women were directing at Harry.

A few other women drifted over, and soon there was a small coterie around Harry, far enough away for them to manage to ignore politely, but close enough to overhear. Corrine, May, and Rene kept their chairs circled so that they might better attend to their own conversation. Corrine watched Harry out of the corner of her eye. He seemed ill at ease, and once he threw her a look over his shoulder that bordered on desperation.

"Oh, here comes Mrs. Brown," Rene said, and Corrine watched as a woman with arresting features and a commanding presence bustled over to the group. "She's the one that's been organizing the efforts to help the steerage passengers by raising money and sewing clothes. She's given them a great deal of comfort, from what I've heard." Corrine nodded, impressed. She had heard about Mrs. Brown, even all the way in Southampton. She was a noted feminist and philanthropist in America, and of particular interest to Corrine, as she was the daughter of Irish immigrants and had risen from the working class to become a millionaire. She would have loved to speak with her, in truth - if the woman hadn't laid her hand on Harry's arm, and in a booming voice, asked him if he had threatened any more 'nabobs' lately.

The group tittered, and one retorted, "He only threatened the riff-raff, Margaret, not the real people."

Astounded and offended, Corrine looked at Harry. His face had gone white, and a muscle feathered in his jaw. "Actually, what happened was-" he began, but Mrs. Brown, who looked equally upset at the insult, leaned in. "Mr. Lowe, can you show them your gun, like you showed me the other day?" she said eagerly, in a clear ploy to redirect the conversation.

Reluctantly, he pulled the Browning from his pocket, to the rapturous gasps of the ladies in the group. Mrs. Brown smiled triumphantly, and Corrine noticed that her hand was still resting on Harry's arm.

"You'd better go retrieve your man," May said ominously, glancing over at them. "Margaret is looking mighty friendly... and she likes them young."

"But isn't she married?" Corrine asked, confused.

Rene snorted. "Married, but separated for years... which means she is free to do whatever she wants; her husband doesn't care one whit. Anyhow, Corrine will do no such thing. It's beneath her. I'll bring Harold over here myself," she declared, rising.

She marched over to the group and grabbed Harry by the elbow. "Pardon me, ladies," she said imperiously, "but Mr. Lowe is needed elsewhere. His fiancee requires his assistance in returning to her room."

There it was, that word again: fiancee. But she didn't have a chance to ponder it. At once, several regal heads swiveled on white-columned necks in Corrine's direction. She resisted the urge to pat her mussed hair and smiled self-consciously. Only Margaret Brown looked chastened to realize that she existed at all. The others turned back to the coterie and resumed their conversation as Harry was led away.

Corrine gazed up him as he stood beside Rene. He seemed strangely subdued; his eyes were troubled, and his forehead was once again covered in a slight sheen of sweat. Was he uncomfortable with all the attention he was receiving? And what kind of attention was it, exactly? With a growing sense of suspicion, she began to entertain the possibility that her own naïveté had been preventing her from picking up on innuendos that might be obvious to the others. And maybe, she thought with dawning realization, that's why the word 'fiancee' kept coming up. Maybe that was the only boundary these people respected. Although judging from the comments both May and Rene had made today, even the bonds of marriage weren't always honored. Corrine had grown up very differently: people got married and stayed married, went through good times and bad together, and somehow made it work. But these tales of divorces, separations, infidelities... they were foreign to her - and it meant that as an officer on a passenger liner, Harry moved in a world whose rules she didn't understand at all. Uneasily, she wondered if this was the first time he had been subjected to this type of behavior, or if it was commonplace.

Her thoughts were diverted when Rene announced, "I think it's time you take Corrine to her room." She said it tactfully but pointedly, and Harry quickly nodded his agreement. Before he did so, however, Rene reached up to Harry and hugged him hard. Surprised, he put his arms around her, hugging her in return. She pulled back to look him square in the eye. "I don't know if and when I'll see you again, Harold," she said, "but I want you to know that you'll always be my hero." Her eyes shone with sincerity and affection. "Take care of each other," she said, directing her comment to both Corrine and Harry. "Make the most of this life..." At that, she choked up, and Corrine rose to put her arm around her as well, providing the only comfort they could to this grieving but indomitable widow.

Harry and Corrine eventually bade Rene and May goodbye, with best wishes all around and promises to write after they returned to their regular lives. She hoped they would indeed be in touch in the future; she had liked both women immensely, and hoped to continue a friendly relationship with them.

As they walked past the group Harry had been speaking with earlier, they nodded warmly at him, and once they were past Corrine couldn't resist asking, "Exactly how many women did you save, Harry? It's becoming difficult to wade through your throngs of admirers." She said it lightly, but she couldn't quite keep the insecurity - and jealousy - out of her voice.

He made a noncommittal noise in his throat, keeping his eyes resolutely on the floor.

They stopped once more before they left the room, as Harry introduced her to Miss Fabian, the woman who had generously lent her the dress she was wearing. The petite woman politely complimented her on her appearance, and Corrine thanked her profusely. After promising to care for and return the dress before they docked, Corrine begged her leave, claiming exhaustion, and the two continued on their way.

After exiting the room, they walked past yet another group of young, well-dressed women standing on the deck, who lit up at the sight of Harry. One simpered and waved, but the rest just stood there, smiling flirtatiously. Once Harry and Corrine had passed, they clustered together in a circle. They must have thought they were out of earshot - but the wind carried their voices clearly to Corrine's ears.

"He was in charge of my boat," one bragged. "So I got to spend all night with him."

"You know, he's the only officer that did anything that night," she heard another confide.

"A real hero," the first one confirmed.

"And so handsome, too," she heard a third sigh.

A growing sense of worry and consternation was gnawing at her. She was so engrossed in her thoughts that she failed to notice his own unease.

* * *

Irene Harris is hands down my absolute favorite female Titanic survivor. Scratch that - she didn't just survive, she LIVED, carving a place for herself in the male-dominated theater world after her husband's death with fearless aplomb. Truly an extraordinary woman. And she adored RealLowe ;) I think that might have been part of the reason he received such glowing mention in 'A Night To Remember' - because Irene/Rene/Renee Harris was still alive at the time the book was written and spoke highly of him to Lord.

I relied on Encyclopedia Titanica biographies as well as other sources to flesh out the personalities of the other first-class characters in this chapter. Margaret Brown (who, despite what Cameron tells us, was never known as 'Molly' in her lifetime) was a philanthropist and suffragist who truly lived life on her own terms; she even ran unsuccessfully for the US Senate. She and her husband were separated in 1909 and remained so for the rest of their lives. May Futrelle kept her husband's memory alive by completing his last unfinished novel and promoting his work for the rest of her life. And Lucile Carter divorced Billy Carter in 1914; one of the 'cruel and barbarous treatments' she cited as grounds for the divorce was that he had deserted her and their children on the Titanic.


	26. Chapter 25: Unease

Apologies that I am late this week, Dear Readers; this chapter needed some careful attention, so I had to spend extra editing time to make sure it was right ;)

To my guest reader: I'm so glad the themes of classism and social inequality resonated with you! Oh, I could write an essay on that topic as it relates to the Titanic! (Maybe I have below, haha). Cameron's Titanic accurately shows that classism was prevalent in Edwardian times - and you can see the casual dismissal of the lower classes in publications from that time period as well. If you were lucky enough to be a third-class woman and survive the disaster, you might have read statements like these when you arrived in America:

"It is customary in cases of this kind for the women to be saved first; _even the women in the steerage _would be taken off before the men passengers of the first and second cabin" (my emphasis) - Philip Franklin, American vice president of IMM, which owned White Star.

Or worse, this:

[men of] "high birth and ideals threw away their lives so that women whom they had never seen - women of the steerage - might be saved." - "J.F.H. ." Editorial. New York Sun. April 21. 1912.

The unspoken belief being, of course, that rich men, who contributed more to society, should have been saved before women of poor birth.

I wanted Corrine to be a third-class passenger for three reasons: 1) because I find I can't relate to wealthy Edwardians at all; 2) the experience of third-class passengers, a source of fascination to me, is sometimes overlooked in history and fiction; and 3) because the difference in classes between our two protagonists adds some tension - especially when you factor in the unequal treatment of the steerage passengers during the sinking. In the story, Corrine is painfully aware of her lower social status, and although it personally doesn't matter to her one whit, she knows that it has the potential to impact her relationship with Harry. It's why she kept telling herself in the beginning that a fancy ship's officer would never be interested in her; such things just weren't done then. Harry's not oblivious to the class differences... he's just decided that he doesn't care, which I think fits with RealLowe's personality. Margaret Brown relays this statement from RealLowe on the Carpathia: "...they [the ship's officers] saw to it that, among those who were saved would not be any of the 'rich nabobs', again reiterating the same, adding, 'We saw to it that they would take their chances with good men'." As to how much this will play a role in #harrine's story... well, we'll just have to wait and see ;) There is definitely some 'unease' (the title of this chapter!) between them under the surface, and several different causes for it. Which brings me to...

Rose1421 (thanks for writing, by the way! Lovely to hear from you!): you may be onto something there with Harry and the reason for his distance. The thing is, there is a LOT going on in his head, and in this chapter we get a wee peek in there to see what he's been struggling with.

Oh Rosie, my dear friend... I hope you are ready for this... both parts of it...!

The first sentence gives it away - there's going to be some smut in this chapter ;) And some cussing on Harry's part.

* * *

On their way back to her cabin, Corrine decided that she was going to seduce Harry.

Not that she knew exactly how, of course. But she had had enough of waiting for him to make the first move. And she had a pretty good idea of what she needed to do: a sultry look here, an accidental brush of her hand there, some clothing that happened to come off... she could manage it, she thought. She could tell that he wanted her, too - at least, most of the time, when his self-control wasn't getting in the way, that is. She would have to do something about that tonight. She smiled wickedly to herself. At last, she would know what it felt like to make love to him... at last, he would be hers, truly hers. But underneath her calculated scheming was an undercurrent that she didn't want to admit, even to herself: finally, it would put her insecurities about him to rest once and for all. Finally, she wouldn't have to feel inferior to all the women who came before her - or anyone who was trying to win him over now.

She pushed away the disturbing memories of the afternoon, the lingering doubts about whether she deserved him. Soon, she wouldn't have to think about any of that ever again.

They passed the remainder of the walk to the room in uncharacteristic silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Once he escorted her inside, she shut the door deliberately - and locked it. The move wasn't lost on Harry, who looked suddenly uneasy.

She crossed the room, moved the chair, and stood in front of the bed. "Harry," she purred, "I'm going to need your assistance while I take off this dress."

The pretense, and the backdrop of the bed, gave her away instantly. He tried to protest: "Corrine, I shouldn't... I can't-"

"Well, you helped me put it on," she interrupted, pushing her bottom lip out in a pretty pout. "How am I supposed to get undressed without you? And it's feeling... so... restrictive all of a sudden." The last was said in a low, breathy voice.

Her words and tone were chosen deliberately, and she saw the effect they had on him. He swallowed, and she noticed his heart rate accelerate in the pulse of his neck. "Corrine..." he warned. "You're still quite weak, and you very nearly died. We have to control ourselves."

"I'll behave, I promise," she said lightly. She crossed her fingers behind her back. She would do no such thing, of course.

He nodded reluctantly, and she turned so that her back was facing him. He fumbled with the first button, loosening it at last. While he was working on the next one, she casually leaned her lower body into him. He cursed and jerked back, but not before she felt the stiffness in the front of his trousers. Good. Her plan was working perfectly, then. Unseen by him, she smiled triumphantly.

But it was not as easy as she had anticipated to maintain control of the situation. The brush of his fingertips on her back as he worked his way past her shoulder blades and then lower sent shivers shuddering down her spine. She let out a low moan, and it was not playacting this time, not a ruse to manipulate him. His nearness was like a drug, and she was helpless in its all-consuming power. She knew that he was feeling the effects as well. His fingers shook as he slowly unfastened each tiny button. Right after he finished the last one, he bent over her neck. She could feel his warm breath tickling the hairs on her nape as he hesitated, breathing heavily. Then, with a helpless groan, he brushed a kiss onto her exposed skin. One, and then another... and she was turning, looking into those fathomless, expressive dark eyes as he surrendered to her entirely.

Their mouths met in a mutual frantic accord, devouring the distance and drowning all the pain that had come between them. He pulled the pins from her upswept hair and it fell cascading down her back. Wrapping his fingers in it, he trapped her head between his hands as he plundered her lips with his own.

She fell headlong into the kiss, her yearning for him carrying her away in flood of emotions that had been pent up for far too long. She had been waiting for this moment ever since she had woken from her lengthy period of unconsciousness, and she wasn't about to hold back. Her tongue pressed into the seam of his lips insistently, and when they parted for her, she delved into his mouth, exploring its depths. She savored his taste, the warmth of his lips and breath, the movement of his mouth in time with hers.

The heat rising between them was threatening to obliterate her every thought, but she regained her senses momentarily and remembered her objective: to lure him into bed. And with that came the realization that there were far too many layers of clothing in the way. As much as she had wanted that dress on earlier, now she wanted it off, and she broke away from him briefly, slipping it from her shoulders. It fell to a heap on the floor, and she stepped out of it, clad now only in her undergarments and her petticoat. She slid the petticoat down her hips as well and stood before him, waiting.

Her near-nudity ignited a wildfire in his eyes. His hands clenched at his sides in a vain attempt to stop himself from reaching for her. "Don't..." he pleaded with her one last time, but she overrode his objections and took a deliberate step toward him.

She pressed her soft curves against the hard planes of his body, and his control snapped. He crushed her against him, and it was all she could do to keep breathing as his mouth seared hers with such fervor and raw passion that her knees quavered. His eyes, heavy-lidded with desire, rolled back in his head as he groaned and ground himself against her, seeking to increase the contact and friction between their bodies.

He wanted her - she could feel it very clearly - and it made her wild, reckless, desperate. Her hands and her mouth tugged at him, demanding, and he responded in turn, his hands groping over her body as he ravaged her mouth. Her little whimpering sounds of pleasure at his aggressiveness only increased his frenzy; he seemed driven nearly mad with lust.

He reached up to cup her breasts, caressing her nipples roughly with his thumbs through her chemise, and she gasped as the spot between her thighs throbbed with sudden, urgent need. His hands left her breasts to grab her buttocks and then slid lower, to the tops of the back of her thighs. She lifted one leg and placed it on the bed, allowing him access, and he hissed in a breath as his hand brushed the thin cloth covering her and felt the dampness there. She threw her head back and moaned deliriously as his mouth left hers to roam freely over her jaw, her neck, her collarbone, and then trailing lower, to the top of her chest right above the swell of her breasts... while his hand inched ever so close to her aching center...

Her heart was hammering so hard she thought she might faint. Through the haze of her own lust, she realized that the moment had finally come - any minute now he was going to push her onto the bed and take her. She had him in thrall now, she was certain of it. Her hands slid to his waist, to the front of his trousers, and fumbled for his belt buckle.

He gasped suddenly as if doused with cold water and stepped back away from her grasping hands. "No, Corrine," he croaked, eyes wide with alarm. "I can't... If you touch me, I don't know if I can stop..."

"What if I don't want you to?" she whispered, reaching for him again.

His caught her hand and lowered it firmly to her side. His body was trembling from head to toe. "No, Corrine," he insisted again. "Not now, not like this..."

He exhaled loudly, running his hands through his hair. Turning away from her, he faced the door for several long minutes. She watched the steady rise and fall of his shoulders as he slowly calmed himself.

When he turned back around, his face was perfectly smooth. The heat that had bloomed in his cheeks earlier had subsided, the wildness in his eyes was gone. "There will be plenty of time for us to be together once we reach New York." And yet... he was evading her eyes, as if he weren't quite being honest with her.

Wet, aching, and miserable, she sat, wincing as her overly-sensitive body touched the edge of the bed, and studied him. There was a noticeable bulge in the front of his trousers that accentuated the wet spot where his need had leaked through. A quick glance down confirmed that her own skin was still flushed pink, her nipples pointy and hard beneath the flimsy chemise. They both wanted it. Why was he holding himself back from her?

She tried one last time. "I can give you what you need, Harry. Please, let me show you..." she implored.

"I'm sorry, Corrine. I shouldn't have... I- I have to go," he stammered. He moved toward the door, fumbled with the lock, and finally flicked it open. "I"m sorry," he said again quietly, and then was gone.

She sat there for some time without moving, a tempest of humiliation and confusion. She had thrown herself at him - practically begging to give her body to him - and he had refused her. Why? An unwanted, unbidden doubt slivered its way into her thoughts: maybe he thought her fumbling, amateur attempts at seduction were embarrassing and ridiculous. Maybe she had done something to offend or disgust him. Or maybe, her mind insisted sadistically, maybe he's not in love with you the way you are with him.

She threw herself face-down on the bed, ignoring her aching breasts, and groaned into the mattress. All she had wanted was a chance to cement her place in his life... and instead, she had mucked it up entirely.

How were they ever going to get past this?

* * *

Damn. Shit. Fuck.

He just couldn't stop mucking it up, could he?

Harold paced back and forth on the promenade deck outside of Corrine's room. He should go back in there... he should take her in his arms and shag her senseless - hell, he was still hard as a rock- ... no, he should walk away from her and never look back. It would be in her best interests, anyway. He was a right mess, might as well admit it.

He had seen the look on her face as he closed the door. Her usual lively expression was strained, her eyes pinched with confusion and sadness. But what could he do? He couldn't take advantage of her like that... not when he knew that she was throwing herself at him because of a situation he alone had created.

He groaned in frustration. What a fucking knob he was! That comment about the corsets - what the hell had he been thinking? That was foolish enough, but those women abovedecks... he cursed himself once again. He should've known better than to bring her there. He had recognized the predatory looks on some of their faces right away - and apparently Corrine had eventually as well. Ironically, there was a time not too long ago that he would have eagerly capitulated. The opportunities for casual encounters had presented themselves frequently enough that he had learned to avail himself of them every chance he could - once he was ashore, of course. But he never should have exposed her to that. She was so sweet, and so innocent - it was one of the many things he adored about her. She didn't need to see what the world was really like - what his life was like before he met her. But now she knew, all right, and he saw the hurt and realization in her eyes as she processed it all.

Everything that happened today was all his fault; he had made her feel insecure, and in turn she had felt driven to seduce him - to prove herself to him. He saw it all too clearly in her eyes as she locked the door to her room and posed by the bed; she was practically pleading with him to make love to her, to provide her with the reassurance she desperately needed.

And to his disgust, he almost did just that - and not in mindless pursuit of his own selfish gratification, either. Nor was it merely because his profound feelings for her made him crave that physical connection, although that was definitely a part of it. No, he wanted so badly to bury himself in her, even though it would mean deflowering her and spoiling her purity, because maybe, just maybe, he would be able to forget everything in her arms...

He hated himself for even thinking it. He hated himself for everything lately.

He paused in his restless wandering and stared unseeing at the horizon, the beautiful golden hues of the late-afternoon sky a sharp contrast to the darkness that had enveloped his heart and threatened to steal his sanity in the past few days.

The shadow had come on him unexpectedly. It had been only a pinpoint at first, the slightest twinge of gloom and remorse, but it had steadily grown, pooling in the depths of his soul until it became a foul, festering wound that not even Corrine's bright light could touch. He had hidden it well from her, he knew... but when he was alone, he could admit the truth that had insidiously wormed its way into his consciousness: he was not, and might never again be, the man he was before the sinking. His life had been shattered into pieces in the span of a few hours, and it felt like those pieces would never go back together the way they were before.

At first, his fear for Corrine's safety, his frantic search for her, and his relief at her miraculous survival had, for a time, overshadowed everything. In addition, he had been running on pure adrenaline for so long that he hadn't been able to feel anything else.

But once he was certain that Corrine would live, he had had a chance to take stock of his surroundings, and the full weight of the tragedy finally began to sink in. He saw weeping widows everywhere - some, he knew, who had lost their husbands because he refused to let their men board his boat. And there had been room, even in his own crowded lifeboat, for a few more. He recalled the unoccupied seats in the boats he had filled with Murdoch on the starboard side, as well as the ones in his flotilla - enough that he had been able to find space for his passengers among them when he returned to search for survivors. True, the officers had done the best they could despite the passengers' initial reluctance to abandon ship and the urgent need to launch all the boats before the Titanic sank. Still, the lifeboats hadn't been filled to capacity... and even though there wasn't much Harold himself could have done about that, his conscience still pricked him on the subject.

But the rescue attempt... well, that failure fell squarely on his own shoulders. There was no use in trying to banish the thoughts that were chasing themselves around in his head; he let them overtake him, bracing himself for the familiar litany he knew was coming, for the self-censure he surely deserved. The same thoughts, over and over: he should have come up with the idea earlier, made the passengers move faster, found the wreckage sooner, chased the cries of the dying in the water more effectively, saved more people...

But he had been too late. Too late to make a real difference, to do more than sift through frozen bodies in an agony of self-condemnation.

And overriding all of his regrets was the nagging thought that refused to stop plaguing him: would he have gone back at all if he weren't so desperate to find Corrine?

He pushed that one away immediately, as he always did. There was a chance that he wouldn't be able to live with himself at all if he answered that question in the negative... because the guilt of knowing the truth might eat him alive.

Resolutely he continued to pick at the edges of his raw emotions, deriving a perverse sort of satisfaction in his own pain and hoping that punishing himself would somehow keep the ghosts at bay. It wasn't just the needless death of so many passengers that was haunting him; he also mourned the loss of his fellow officers. In addition to the captain, the chief officer, Wilde, had also died. But it was the loss of Murdoch and Moody that hurt the most. Murdoch's skill and diligence, his calm, quiet, inspiring leadership, had won Harold's high regard - and his loyalty - during their brief time together... and sadly, these same admirable traits had also ultimately led to the man's demise. The guilt and responsibility Murdoch felt for the collision had sat heavily on his shoulders - Harold had seen it in his eyes that night - and it was his unwavering sense of duty and honor that made the first officer feel obligated to go down with his ship.

And Moody - Harold squeezed his eyes shut in pain at the thought. He had genuinely liked the young bloke, so full of enthusiasm and wide-eyed wonder. Moody had made him feel welcome from the start, had treated him with kindness, and had disregarded Harold's reticence with an easy, natural friendliness that had been surprisingly endearing. Although the two of them couldn't have been more different, they had become close on the journey. It had been a cruel blow indeed when Harold found out that he had perished; the man had been Harold's junior, and by all rights he should have left the ship before him.

But Harold had survived. He was one of the lucky ones... wasn't he?

So why then was he choking on the overwhelming sense of loss? Why had his mind become a prison of torment and agony, replaying over and over the images and sounds from that night, the ones that haunted both his waking and sleeping hours without ceasing?

...Corrine, stretching her arm out in a futile attempt to reach him as he descended in a lifeboat...

...the roar over the water as everything tore loose from the ship in her death throes...

...the screams and moans and pleas from the abandoned in the sea...

...the mother and baby he had seen frozen to death, bumping into the side of his boat...

...Corrine, lying so white and still in the swamped collapsible...

He pressed his hands to the sides of his head to try and block it out, to keep the memories at bay, but it was futile; they washed over him in a wave, relentless and brutal. His breathing became shallow and his skin broke out into a clammy sweat. Frantic, he tried to fight the demons wrestling for his soul... but he was pathetic, weak, powerless to overcome the wretched sensation engulfing him. The panic made him feel dizzy and sick, and he swayed on his feet, seeing blackness at the edges of his vision.

For the first time in his life, he wished for a stiff drink. He needed something, anything, to make this feeling go away...

Suddenly, he was running, his feet flying over the freshly polished wood. He had to get away... to escape the past, his own mind. He sprinted past startled passengers and crewmembers, leaping over lines and dodging cranes and hatches. He reached the poop deck without any memory of having done so, panting as he threw himself on the stern railing, facing the churning water below. He stared, unseeing, remembering...

When he was thirteen, he had stolen the family punt from its mooring in Aberamffra and taken it for a sail. He had known it would be risky, given the blustery weather, but he had wanted to test himself. Sure enough, the wind picked up, the boat capsized, and Harold was thrown into the sea, wearing his clothes and heavy boots. He was half a mile from shore, and he panicked, feeling the drag of his gear pulling him under. As the waves lapped his head and he flailed ineffectually, his mind suddenly cleared. Despite the desperate situation, he took deliberate, slow breaths, and felt a strange calm overtake him. It allowed him to think clearly once again, and he decided that he would win - he would beat the sea, and live, no matter the cost. He started swimming, one stroke at a time, slowly creeping back to the shore over half a mile away. Steady breaths... steady strokes... he was so intensely focused that he didn't register he had reached land until his shoulder struck the soft sand. He had received a sound thrashing from his furious father, who had already lost his oldest son to an accidental drowning, but the experience had been transformative. That day, he learned that the sea offered him both life and death, and he had devoted himself to it ever since.

And now he needed it to be his salvation once again.

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of the salt water as he had that day so long ago. Gradually, his pounding heart slowed, and he felt that same sense of serenity and purpose return. He stood there for some time, looking out to the sea, feeling the spray on his face as his body slowly relaxed, letting the water heal and soothe his raw soul.

Once he was able to think clearly again, his thoughts returned to Corrine. The water wasn't the only source of his peace now, he realized. She, too, had to power to make the pain go away. The times he had spent with her here, on this ship, telling stories and confiding in one another, had been his only respite - the only time he had felt whole again - since the night he had woken to find the world falling apart. He pictured her eyes in his mind, so very like the sea he loved so much, and his resolve hardened. He would go to her. He would explain everything, and they would-

"There you are, old man," said a voice behind him. Composing his features with an effort, Harold turned to see Pitman striding toward him. "It's time for our meeting with Ismay."

Harold suppressed a groan. He had forgotten all about it. He had detested the White Star executive even before he knew who he was, back when Harold was lowering Titanic's lifeboats and he was just an anonymous nutter bouncing all over the deck getting in his way. But his dislike had only grown after he heard about Ismay's behavior aboard the Carpathia. It was said that the man hid himself away in Dr. McGee's cabin, talking to no one, in the throes of a nervous breakdown. A nervous breakdown? When he had taken a spot in one of the last lifeboats, while hundreds of women and children - his company's passengers - remained stranded on the ship? He had no sympathy - and certainly no tolerance - for a man like that.

And yet... was he any different?

Vainly, he tried to suppress his traitorous mind, but the questions came anyway, pummeling him with their brutality. Why did he survive, when so many others died? Shouldn't he, too, have gone down with the ship, like the other officers? Wasn't that his duty?

Guilt came crashing down, smothering him under its weight. Oh, if they only knew how unworthy he was - all those people who praised him, who thanked him...

_You're a hero, Mr. Lowe..._

_The only officer that did anything..._

_He was so brave, going back for those poor people..._

_Thank you, Harold, for saving us..._

Panic welled up in his throat again. He was no hero; he was selfish, cowardly, and weak. Why couldn't they see that?

Pitman was still waiting, watching him closely. His fellow officers had noticed something different about him in the past few days, but luckily they didn't know him well enough to comment. Only Lightoller, who knew who and what Corrine was to him, and knew better than most what Harold had seen in the aftermath of the sinking, seemed to understand him. But even Lightoller was wary of the strange shiftings in Harold's mood, and although he looked like he would once or twice, he hadn't dared broach the subject.

He couldn't tell them. He had to keep it hidden; they would never understand, might even despise him if they learned who he really was.

Taking a deep breath, and giving Pitman what he hoped was a reassuring smile, Harold nodded. "Let's be off, then."

Crushed by feelings of shame, worthlessness, and self-hatred, he followed Pitman to Ismay's room.

* * *

The story about the punt is true, and recorded in both Wyn Craig Wade's book and Inger Sheil's biography. Unfortunately, not much is known about the incident other than that RealLowe swam to shore for a half mile in his boots after the punt capsized. As usual, I have embellished details to flesh out the story.

You can see now why you haven't been allowed inside our hero's head space since before 'Chaos'. It's because it's ugly in there. Although Corrine has suffered more physically, in some ways she is better off than Harry - at least her conscience is clear. And while I do not personally endorse Harry's viewpoint about the disaster and his resulting actions, I portrayed it this way because I think it would be highly plausible, given the particular set of circumstances and his unique role in them, for him to feel survivor's guilt.

And THIS - the aftermath of the tragedy, and its profound effects on the survivors - is the story I've always wanted to tell.


	27. Chapter 26: Arrival

WOW! Over 100 reviews and almost 9,000 views! Thank you to all my loyal readers for making these amazing milestones happen!

Thank you also for your encouragement and enthusiasm about the last chapter. I am thrilled to hear that so many enjoyed hearing Harry's perspective; I hated having to hold back on his POV myself, but thought it important to keep his state of mind enigmatic until just the right moment. And hi again, Rose1421! Thanks for the kind words, I'm excited to delve into this aspect of the Titanic disaster. And as for officer fics, there are very few Lightoller stories (hint, hint!); the man never gets enough love - probably because he was married in real life, but I'd still love to see more stories about him ;)

So, to recap: Harry wants Corrine, Corrine wants Harry. But otherwise, they are at loggerheads. She wants to lose her virginity to him as soon as possible; he wants to preserve it as long as possible. She's convinced that the only way to deal with her trauma is to drown herself in him... and he's convinced that the only way he can retain his humanity is by resisting her. She's terribly insecure, and he's fighting demons she can't see.

I mean, what could possibly go wrong?

* * *

The air was different between them after that.

Harry still came to visit that night and sit beside her bed, but he was withdrawn, distant. There were several awkward pauses in the conversation, followed by long silences. He seemed cold, closed off somehow, and she didn't know how to reach him. Corrine wasn't sure if it was because of their pending arrival in New York, or because of what had passed between them earlier. But for the first time since they had met, she felt uncomfortable around him. She wanted to cry, to beg him to tell her what was wrong, to plead with him to return to her, to himself, but the words stuck in her throat.

Eventually, he said a stilted good night, lightly kissing her forehead but carefully avoiding every other part of her body. The click of the closing door as he left sounded like the turning of a key, locking her out of his heart.

After he left, she picked at the blankets anxiously, a thousand scattered thoughts racing through her head, all eventually converging on a single point:

What was wrong with Harry?

It was as if she didn't know him anymore; in the span of a few hours, he had become a stranger to her. That small, mean voice from earlier spoke up again. Maybe he's tired of you already, it told her. Perhaps you were a mere infatuation to him... and now that the novelty had worn off, he's ready to move on. Especially now that he's become famous... and likely has his pick of proper, socially acceptable ladies to choose from. Maybe that's why he didn't respond favorably to your advances earlier-

She quickly pushed those fears down, refusing to indulge in the temptation to feel sorry for herself and wallow in melodrama. Instead, she tried to quell her disquiet with too-bright reassurances. Whatever's bothering Harry, he'll confide in me when he's ready, she told herself firmly. After all, he's in love with me...

...isn't he?

She lay staring at the ceiling for a long time that night, her mind flitting back and forth like a frantic bird beating its wings against a cage. And when sleep finally overtook her, it was fitful, plagued by fragmented dreams, disturbing visions, and a vague, unspecified dread.

* * *

The morning they were due to arrive in New York dawned dreary and cold. She could see mist swirling outside the porthole in her room. Everywhere, crew members, passengers, and survivors were preparing. She could hear them moving around outside, knocking about and conversing in both cheerful and somber tones, depending on the group. She knew she, too, should rise and start preparing. Although she had little in the way of possessions to pack, she did have a few people that she would like to speak with before they parted ways forever in New York.

And Harry... how did she prepare for that? What would become of them, now that their journey was over? Would his coldness from the previous evening continue, or would he become his old self once they docked? How long would they be able to be together before he had to leave? She still didn't know any more than she had a few days ago - his strange reluctance to discuss it had discouraged her from bringing it up again - and just the thought of their uncertain future made her heart rise in her throat.

Harry burst into her stateroom suddenly, without knocking. Her surprise and delight at seeing him soon gave way to unease, however. His expression was tempestuous, his movements animated, jerky. His demeanor was such a sharp contrast to last night's cool indifference that it sent a shiver of foreboding down her spine.

He sat down in the chair and got right to it. "Corrine, Mr. Ismay has managed to secure passage on the Cedric for Titanic's officers and himself. The Marconigrams have been flying back and forth since last night, but it's finally settled. We're to leave New York tomorrow afternoon."

She felt like the wind had been knocked out of her. Just like that, he was going to disappear from her life - for how long, she didn't know. They both knew it was coming... but she never thought it would be so soon, and in the form of a mandate from the director himself.

"Why?" she managed to choke out.

"Probably to avoid the American press. They're howling for our blood, wanting to know why all those passengers died while so many from the crew were spared." He said it dully, carefully avoiding her eyes as he spoke.

She drew in a startled breath. What exactly did he mean by that statement? Did he not think the crew had as much right to life as anyone else? Or was he implying something even more sinister? Surely... surely he wasn't condemning himself, was he? He had survived the catastrophe because his superiors needed someone to man that lifeboat, to take charge and keep the passengers safe. And he was ordered in, for goodness sake! And yet that look in his eyes... it almost seemed as if...

As if he felt guilty.

"Oh, God, Harry, no-" she pleaded, voice breaking, but he cut her off, reaching out and grasping both of her hands in his.

"Never mind that now. Come with me," he begged. "I'm sure I can get Mr. Ismay to pay for your return trip. Or," and his eyes lit with a wild new hope, "better yet, maybe you can sign on a stewardess! That'll cover your passage, and we'll be together... yes, that's it! I'll talk to them, convince them that you have to be assigned to whatever ship I'm on, because we're betrothed, and..." He was babbling, desperation tinging his voice.

The sudden change in his mood, and the direction of the conversation, was dizzying. Trying to calm his racing mind, she put her finger on his lips to hush him. "Harry, you know I can't do that," she said gently.

"Why not?" he asked warily. His expression was beginning to change, from jubilant to apprehensive.

She rubbed her thumbs gently on the backs of his hands. "Harry, I promised I'd wait for you. I never said I'd travel around the world with you. I want to settle in America, get on my feet, like I told you. I want to... make a home... for both of us..." She trailed off, uncertain and vulnerable.

He looked at her, his expression incredulous. "In America? I have no intentions of ever living in that upstart, backwater country, Corrine, and you know it." The dismissive, non-negotiable nature of the statement, said with such finality, cut her deeply, although she tried not to show it. "Besides... after everything that happened, I thought you'd have changed your mind about living there as well. I need you, Corrine," he said, gripping her shoulders tightly to emphasize his words. "I don't... I can't live without you."

The naked honesty in his expression broke her heart. She choked back a sob, knowing that this hopeless, futile fantasy of his would only lead them into pain and disappointment. She knew the truth, even if he couldn't face it. She couldn't follow him where he went. His suggestion to sign on as a stewardess was heartfelt, but unrealistic. They would probably never serve on the same ship - especially once the management learned of their relationship - and thus she would see him even less than if she remained on land. And of course, the thought of sailing again - especially for a living - made her heart race and her blood run cold. No, a life at sea was not an option.

"Harry, you're not thinking clearly," she said soothingly. "Please, think this through. There are a million reasons-"

He interrupted, bitterness lacing his voice. "Are you telling me your dreams of being a- a... seamstress, or whatever, are more important than our future?"

She recoiled as if struck. With his lashing words, he had torn open a part of her soul that she thought was sacred with him: her dreams, her plans, her very existence. Now, he was making a mockery of it - all to cause her intentional pain. She could hardly believe this was the same man who so tenderly held her, cried over her, and promised her a future.

No; she refused to believe that he would change like this. There was more to his behavior recently, she was sure of it. Something had happened to him, something that had poisoned his mind and set off a torrent of primal emotions, causing him to lash out at her. She had to calm him, convince him, make him see...

"No," she whispered, slowly shaking her head. "No... that's not it at all. Harry, you're suffering, you're scared... you don't understand what you're saying. Please," she begged, her voice cracking, "Please don't do this to us."

His face went expressionless and his eyes shuttered. He spoke deliberately and coldly, and it was like staring into the face, the soul, of a stranger. "To hell with your plans, Corrine. To hell with your pleas, your objections - to hell with all of it. You either leave with me tomorrow, or it's over."

Shock filled her like icy water as she stared at him, stunned. She had never heard him talk to her that way before. Her adoration of him was near-worshipful, and she had been naive enough to believe that he had reciprocated those feelings. But this wasn't the gentle, affectionate, considerate man she had come to know and love. No - this Harry was hard, cruel, hurtful... and there was no trace of compassion, no room for compromise, in his steely tone.

And his threat to break off their relationship forever... even though their future was uncertain, and even though he would have to leave sooner than they had anticipated, never in her worst nightmares did she think that it would mean the end of them. What about all their tentative plans? What about her promise to wait for him? Did all that mean nothing now? She wanted to double over in pain at the unbearable thought.

But his words also lit a small ember of anger deep in her heart. It was an ultimatum - and she wouldn't - couldn't - stand for it. No matter her feelings, her hopes, what they had been through together... she couldn't let anyone, even the man she loved more than anything in the world, make her decisions for her. It was the reason she had left home in the first place, the reason she had left the restrictions of both Ireland and England behind her. And it was the reason that she quietly said, "I won't, Harry."

He dropped his hands from her shoulders and stood, backing away hastily. "So this was just a shipboard romance, then?" he whispered, averting his face. "And everything between us - that was all a lie?"

His heartless words, the distance between them, cut her to the very bone. Her heart stuttered in her chest, and devastation spilled over her features. She needed him to turn back, to look at her; she had to tell him what he already knew was in her heart. "No! Harry, no! You have to know how I feel about you. I lo-"

He whipped around, face full of fury. "Don't say it, Corrine!" he shouted at her, restraint snapping. Grief and pain wracked his handsome features, and he fisted his hands at his sides, as if to ward off her words, her feelings. "Don't you dare say that to me!"

He gave her one last, long, tortured look, tore the door open, nearly snapping it on its hinges, and stormed out. The slam of the door behind him echoed hollowly in her heart.

She was too shattered to cry.

* * *

They called it the ship of widows.

Corrine wasn't a widow, but as she stood on the deck of the Carpathia as it sailed into New York harbor on April 18th, she felt like one. Harry had never come back to her room after their final argument. His promise that he would be glued to her side until they reached New York had been broken, along with all the other promises he had made to her. She hadn't gone to look for him, either. She had no idea where he went when he wasn't with her, and anyhow, she knew that if he didn't want to be found, he could probably vanish without a trace. Plus, it would have been pointless: he had made it perfectly clear that there was nothing left to say - nothing left between them at all.

It was over, a permanent sundering that forever divided her life into 'before' and 'after'. Even the sinking of Titanic itself had not affected her as profoundly - probably, she knew, because she had had him to stitch the torn fragments of herself back together. Their relationship, fleeting as it was, had left such a mark on her soul that she knew she would never be the same again. The deep sense of loss had all but crippled her during the final day on the ship. In her darkest hour, she almost wished she were back in the icy north Atlantic. There, at least, she had hope... and only her body was frozen, not her heart.

But she knew she couldn't afford to wallow in self-pity for long. Somehow, she had to pick up the threads of her life and find a way to keep moving, keep breathing in spite of the anguish and heartbreak of losing him. On the evening of their arrival she dressed in the torn but clean dress she had worn the night of the sinking, put on her coat, and walked out on the promenade deck, prepared to see her new home for the first time. As she stood at the railing, she realized dully that her former fear of heights no longer bothered her so much. She had found over the past week that there were far worse things to dread.

It was foggy, and she could barely make out the gargantuan buildings looming in the background like menacing giants in the mist. A cold rain chilled her skin, but the crowds at the dock were heedless of the weather. Hundreds of people silently watched the ship churn slowly through the water to the pier. Their progress to the Cunard dock was delayed, however, as the ship took a surprising detour to the White Star docks, where Titanic's lifeboats were offloaded into the water. A collective sigh arose from the crowd at the pathetic and eerie sight of all that remained from the once-great ship. Finally, the Carpathia steamed toward the pier and the waiting crowd. Flashbulbs popped, and she knew that her face, as well as that of the other survivors, was being memorialized for posterity.

A reporter caught her eye and shouted out to her, "Are you a Titanic survivor?"

After some hesitation, she replied, "Yes."

"Do you need anything?" the reporter pressed.

She thought about that question for a minute. Did she need something? She needed many things: for that terrible night to have never happened, for fifteen hundred souls to be saved. She needed her carefree life before the sinking, she needed absolution... she needed Harry. But these things were nothing that the reporters, this crowd, even this city, could give her.

"No," she said softly. The reporter respectfully hung his head and said no more.

She watched along the railing with her fellow survivors as the Carpathia passengers disembarked first. The crowd remained silent as they passed through the gauntlet of people lining the pier. Then, all eyes fixed on the gangway as the first of Titanic's survivors began to emerge. A ripple through the crowd, and the first cry, high-pitched and keening, tore through the assembled spectators. Soon the air was ringing with exclamations of grief and joy.

Suddenly, she saw a commotion near the gangway: it looked as if a knot of men were shoving their way toward the ship. One broke through at last, a short, fast-moving man in a flapping coat. He stormed up the gangway, a small group close at his heels. He waved papers at the ship's officers and stewards and was allowed to pass.

She waited, continuing to observe the chaotic scene below. She knew that third-class survivors would be disembarking last, after an on-board inspection. She should probably head down to the steerage quarters now, and join Katie and Kate... but something stopped her. That group of men that boarded the Carpathia: they didn't look like reporters, and anyway, she knew Captain Rostron wasn't permitting any newspapermen on his ship. What were they about, then?

She was soon to find out. They reemerged, escorting several men. She spotted the tall White Star executive who had survived the sinking in the lifeboat she had left - Ismay, she remembered - and following closely on his heels was Charles Lightoller. Two other officers that she didn't know trailed them... and then... Harry.

He was bringing up the rear of the little group. At the sight of him, a pang of longing shot through her, and she put her hand to her heart, as if to keep it from flying out of her body after him.

She watched from the upper deck as they were escorted down the gangway by a crowd of reporters, politicians, and police officers. Harry held his head high, defiant, daring the world to challenge him, to question him. He didn't once look back.

He didn't look for her at all.

Dry-eyed and empty, she stood there, watching them disappear into the crowded street. For a long moment, she remained frozen to the spot. Everyone else around her drifted off, and for a time, she was alone. Eventually she sensed a presence at her side. A purser waited there, respectful and attentive.

"I have something for you, miss," he said, offering her a small packet.

He touched his cap and left. Corrine let the packet dangle from her nerveless fingers as she stood in the gentle drizzle.

* * *

Kate found her there about half an hour later, still gazing off into the distant city.

She had heard about about the demise of Corrine's relationship with Officer Lowe from Katie, who had snuck up to the promenade right outside Corrine's stateroom that morning to surprise her and accidentally overheard everything. "His voice was like ice when he told her it was over," Katie confided when she returned to steerage. Her face was white with shock, and she was near tears herself. "He was in a right rage when he left, and Corr wouldn't answer the door when I knocked and called her name." They had waited all day, hoping Corrine would come to them, but she hadn't... and now it was time to leave, and they were worried sick about her. When Kate finally found her at the railing, soaked to the bone and staring sightlessly out at the crowds, she knew at once that things had only gotten worse.

Kate came up behind her slowly so as not to startle her, but her friend didn't so much as look in her direction. "Corrine, they're letting us off the ship now," she said gently, taking her hand. As she did, a packet dropped from her fingers onto the deck, and Kate picked it up. "What's this?" She peered at Corrine. "Do you want to open it?"

Corrine shook her head silently, motioning for Kate to do it instead. She untied the wrapper. Inside was a piece of brown paper wrapped around several rather large bank notes. A scrap of paper fluttered out. Quickly, before it could become soaked with rain, Kate snatched it up and read aloud:

C-

For you, to start your new life.

H.

The casual, irrevocable cruelty of it hit Kate like a hammer. "Oh, Corrine," she breathed, "I'm so, so sorry." She put her arm around her friend, trying to rouse her. She seemed to be in a state of shock, Kate noticed with alarm. The only acknowledgement of the note was a single tear sliding down her cheek.

Kate's heart broke for her friend. She had seen her experience such intense joy this last week - but it had been more than matched by pain and suffering in equal measure, more than anyone should have to bear... and now this. It was too much. For once, Corrine - who had been the leader of their little group for as long as Kate could remember - needed someone to help her. Kate guided her gently away from the rail. "Come now, Corrine, you have to go inside. It's raining, and we have to disembark now." She wrapped the note and the money back in the brown wrapper and stuffed it into Corrine's coat pocket. "I'll just put this in here for- what's this?" Her hand had touched something soft and velvety at the bottom of her friend's pocket. She pulled it out - a wilted but still beautiful pink rose.

She was still trying to figure out how it had gotten there when Corrine collapsed to the deck in a boneless heap.

* * *

Songs that inspired the writing of this angsty angst: Say Something - Great Big World; Let Her Go - Passenger; Someone You Loved - Lewis Capaldi (Harry POV).

Historical note: While still on the Carpathia, Ismay - aided and abetted by the ever-loyal Charles Lightoller - concocted a plan to get the Titanic's surviving officers on a ship back to England ASAP, and thus the Cedric was held back from its scheduled departure date to ferry them back the afternoon after they landed in New York. Unbeknownst to Ismay, however, Senator William Alden Smith (the 'short, fast-moving man in a flapping coat') had already laid an ambush of his own, in the form of a subpoena for the officers and Ismay to appear before the American inquiry into the Titanic disaster. So in the story, Ismay's real-life non-negotiable directive was the tipping point for Harry's desperate demand and subsequent freakout. But this wasn't a spur-of-the-moment impulse on Harry's part. No, he has been quietly broadcasting his intentions for several chapters now; for example, in 'Stories', when he said 'hopefully they'll give me a little time to... well, get things sorted', his plan was to convince her to go back with him. And in 'A Tall Tale' when he said the heroine 'lived with him in his castle happily ever after, never having any desire to roam again'... well, that message was loud and clear. Even in 'Confessions', Harry's dissatisfaction with Corrine's plans to stay in America permanently is pretty obvious. But while it's been in the works for awhile, his original approach - which was to use reason and gentle persuasion - changed to an uncompromising ultimatum not only because Ismay forced his hand, but also because of Harry's own deteriorating mental state. Although this was a completely unexpected and devastating turn of events for Corrine, given what you now know about poor Harry from the previous chapter, I hope his behavior wasn't an utter shock to you, dear readers.

To expand on my notes from the previous chapter, I think of all the passengers or crew aboard Titanic that night, RealLowe would be a prime candidate for survivor's guilt (although that wasn't a recognized diagnosis back in 1912). As a ship's officer, albeit a junior, he was not exactly an innocent bystander: he had an active role both in navigating the ship and in loading and lowering lifeboats the night of the sinking. Then there's his ambiguous entry into a lifeboat; unlike in this story, he wasn't ordered in by a senior officer. Rather, he and Moody discussed amongst themselves that several boats had gone without an officer aboard, and Moody told him to take 14, while he would take another. Tragically, Moody never did, and that must have weighed on Lowe's mind as well. And then there's the horrifying spectacle of all those people frozen to death in the water; not many people bore witness to that ghastly image, but Lowe, as one of the few men in that returning boat, certainly did.

In addition, there was the implication - at both inquiries - that he had waited too long to go back for survivors, as evidenced by his own defensiveness on the topic: "I made the attempt, sir, as soon as any man could do so, and I am not scared of saying it. I did not hang back or anything else...You could not do otherwise, because you would have hundreds of people around your boat, and the boat would go down just like that...It would have been suicide" (American inquiry) and "Because it would have been suicide to go back there until the people had thinned out...I had to wait until I could be of some use. It was no good going back there to be swamped" (British inquiry).

So I'm basing much of Harry's behavior in this and the previous chapter on my interpretation of what would probably now be diagnosed as post-traumatic stress disorder. Pulling on that thread a bit, and coupling it with the (fictional) trauma from Corrine's near-death experience, I came up with his reaction here. The man has truly gone through it, and I hope that in light of everything he can be forgiven for losing his shit.


	28. Interludes and Rating Change

I want to give everyone a heartfelt THANK YOU for all your comments and support on the last chapter! Whew, that was a tough one, and I'm really glad to see that people have feelings about it - that means the world to me, because it tells me that you care about these two lovelies, and that's my whole goal in writing their tale ;)

Okay. So we're going to leave our angst-ridden and miserable protagonists here in the present for a moment. The next section will consist of 7 interludes, all but one of which are from Harry's viewpoint. I'm disrupting the story flow at this critical juncture because I want to hopefully provide essential insight into prior and current events from a different perspective, and to help readers understand why and how we got to this point. You've had bits and pieces of Harry's POV before... but that was more of a 10,000-foot view; this is up close and (very) personal. And in order to do him justice, I have to reclassify the story as M (as I warned I might have to do in the Introduction and Disclaimer). If you like your heroes squeaky-clean, this might not be the section for you. Some stuff might upset you, or offend you... but that's not my intent. I want readers to see FictionalLowe as a complex individual, just like all of us. He's both light and dark, and does brave things as well as stupid things. And although these chapters do contain some questionable content, I feel that his actions are in character for the Harry I developed. There are some stories that are innocent (like the first one, which is rated T) - and some that will have long-awaited one-on-one officer interaction! I will indicate at the beginning which contain mature themes, and which are appropriate for all audiences. None of these interludes are essential to understand the rest of the story, although I allude to some of these events in later chapters, so anyone uncomfortable with reading about some of Harry's more controversial exploits can skip over it without feeling like they're missing something important.

One more thing that needs to be stated: this is even more of an alternative history than the rest of the story, because as I must emphasize, none of the events in this section actually happened (this is especially important to remember for the second and fourth interludes). So please, no recriminations or lawsuits!

So with that being said, we're off on a deep-dive into Harry's life. You might think you know him, but we've only just scratched the surface. You've been warned. Ha. And whether you love it, or hate it, or skip the questionable sections altogether... I hope you keep reading.

Final note: because of the rating change, this story will no longer appear on the default Titanic search page (I think they only display K-T stories; getting to the M stories requires a specific search). Therefore, just to make sure I don't lose anybody during the transition, I'm going to hold off posting a new update until next week. That should give everyone enough time to bookmark, follow, favorite, or figure out how to search for W&S under the M section ;) Hope to see you all then!


	29. Interlude: Love and Pain

All right, here we go with the first of the interludes! As I mentioned last week, this one won't be rated M, although next week's will. I hope you all enjoy the all-new format and insight into Harry's life! And Rose1421: I sent you a PM, but in case you didn't get it, I'd love to read your prologue - please send it my way!

* * *

_And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart,_  
_And from his fellow bacchanals would flee;_  
_'Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start,_  
_But pride congealed the drop within his e'e:_  
_Apart he stalked in joyless reverie,_  
_And from his native land resolved to go,_  
_And visit scorching climes beyond the sea;_  
_With pleasure drugged, he almost longed for woe,_  
_And e'en for change of scene would seek the shades below._

_The Childe departed from his father's hall;_  
_It was a vast and venerable pile;_  
_So old, it seemed only not to fall,_  
_Yet strength was pillared in each massy aisle._  
_Monastic dome! condemned to uses vile!_  
_Where superstition once had made her den,_  
_Now Paphian girls were known to sing and smile;_  
_And monks might deem their time was come agen,_  
_If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men._

_Yet ofttimes in his maddest mirthful mood,_  
_Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold's brow,_  
_As if the memory of some deadly feud_  
_Or disappointed passion lurked below:_  
_But this none knew, nor haply cared to know;_  
_For his was not that open, artless soul_  
_That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow;_  
_Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole,_  
_Whate'er this grief mote be, which he could not control._

_And none did love him: though to hall and bower_  
_He gathered revellers from far and near,_  
_He knew them flatterers of the festal hour;_  
_The heartless parasites of present cheer._  
_Yea, none did love him—not his lemans dear—_  
_But pomp and power alone are woman's care,_  
_And where these are light Eros finds a feere;_  
_Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare,_  
_And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair._

_Childe Harold had a mother—not forgot,_  
_Though parting from that mother he did shun;_  
_A sister whom he loved, but saw her not_  
_Before his weary pilgrimage begun:_  
_If friends he had, he bade adieu to none._  
_Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel;_  
_Ye, who have known what 'tis to dote upon_  
_A few dear objects, will in sadness feel_  
_Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal._

_His house, his home, his heritage, his lands,_  
_The laughing dames in whom he did delight,_  
_Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy hands,_  
_Might shake the saintship of an anchorite,_  
_And long had fed his youthful appetite;_  
_His goblets brimmed with every costly wine,_  
_And all that mote to luxury invite,_  
_Without a sigh he left to cross the brine,_  
_And traverse Paynim shores, and pass earth's central line._

_The sails were filled, and fair the light winds blew_  
_As glad to waft him from his native home;_  
_And fast the white rocks faded from his view,_  
_And soon were lost in circumambient foam;_  
_And then, it may be, of his wish to roam_  
_Repented he, but in his bosom slept_  
_The silent thought, nor from his lips did come_  
_One word of wail, whilst others sate and wept,_  
_And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept..._

**'Childe Harold's Pilgrimage', Lord Byron**

* * *

1897 - 1903

"I hate him," Harold Lowe mumbled, his lower lip trembling.

Except it wasn't really true. He didn't hate his father. He loved him... despite everything, he loved him. And he wanted his father's love, too... but there were always conditions.

_'You're going to be apprenticed, and that is that, Harold. You will not defy me.'_

And that's why he was hastily stuffing a spare pair of trousers, drawers, socks, and a few shirts into a ditty bag.

_'But I want to be paid for my labor. And I've told you what I want to do. Please, Father, if you'll just-'_

_'You're never going to be a sailor, Harold. That's for the dregs of society. You're a gentleman and a Lowe, not an uncivilized brute, and you'll do as you're told!'_

He sniveled and wiped the back of his hand over his eyes. He was so tired of crying; he despised crying. At fourteen, he should have been long past it. And yet-

_'You're too old for a beating. But I have other ways of punishing you.'_

The flaming hulk, his anguished cries, his father's eyes glittering mercilessly in the glare.

He brushed away the last of his shameful tears, slung the bag over his shoulder, walked over to the window, and raised the sash. Taking one last glance around his luxurious bedroom, he threw one leg over the windowsill and searched with his foot for the thick branch that would carry him out of this toxic, oppressive house and to freedom.

And that's when his sister Ada burst into the room. "Harry! Father wants you to-"

She froze, taking in the bag, the open window, his defiant expression.

Her eyes narrowed. "What do you think you're doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing, Ada?" he retorted, straddling the windowsill.

She crossed her arms. "Oh, no you don't, Harry. You're not running away. It's not fair that you get to-" She cut off the rest of her sentence, stomping her foot in frustration and chagrin. "If you try to go, I'm... I'm telling!"

"No, you won't," he snapped.

"I most certainly will," she taunted, her eyes hard.

Harold took a deep breath. "He burned the punt, Ada. Did you know that? Lit it and pushed it out into the bay. It's gone." His voice quavered slightly.

She gasped loudly, her face paling. "He didn't..." she whispered. "Not George's punt. Why?"

"To teach me a lesson," he spat, bile rising in his throat. "For defying him."

"Oh, Harry..."

"So I'm leaving, and you're not going to stop me."

Brother and sister looked at each other steadily for a long minute. Then she sighed in defeat, nodding her agreement. "What about Mother?" she asked quietly.

His face softened. "I left her a note," he said, gesturing to the table by the bed. "But you tell her... tell her that I'm sorry." He couldn't keep his face from crumpling with grief and regret.

"She'll understand. You know how she feels about... about what Father's doing," Ada assured him gently.

He stared down at the floor for a long moment, then met her eyes again. "Take care of her for me, all right?"

"Where... where are you going? She'll want to know."

"To sea, of course."

Alarm spilled onto her features then. "No, Harry, you can't! You don't know the first thing about sailing! You'll drown, just like George-" Her voice caught in her throat.

"No, I won't," he insisted. And somehow, as he said it, he knew it was the truth. His words were firm as he continued, "The sea won't take me, I promise. It's my destiny, not my doom. I'm going to live my life on my own terms, and I'm going to make a name for myself. I'm going to be more than just Harry, George Lowe's son." He took a deep breath. "So when I come home again - if I ever come home - I want you to call me Harold."

She paused for a moment, and when she spoke again, her voice was queer, almost deferential. "All right... Harold. I'll let you go. I'll even cover for you. Give you a head start. Just this once, mind."

"Thanks, Ada. I'm in your debt." He gave her one last, lingering look, and disappeared out the window.

* * *

"Please, sir," he begged, pulling on the captain's sleeve.

He had walked most of the night, stopping once to collapse in a field near the road for a few hours of much-needed sleep. But he had made it to Portmadoc early that morning, hoping to catch the ships before they left the harbor.

His luck had held, at least in that respect. But the masters wanted seasoned sailors, not green boys like him. One after another, they had refused him.

As the morning wore on, Harold grew more and more desperate. He had to hurry; his father might only be a few hours behind him, if he had guessed his destination - which he probably had. He had to make sure he was safely out of reach, or else... well, he didn't even want to contemplate the alternative.

The captain he was accosting gave him a quick assessing glance. His eyes held a healthy dose of skepticism. Harold was a slender boy, not an ounce of fat on him, and rather short for his age. He knew that was why the other skippers had refused him a berth; they didn't think he could pull his weight.

He was determined to prove them all wrong.

"How old are you, son?" the captain asked gruffly, looking down at him.

"Sixteen," Harold lied.

The man studied him. "You don't look a day over twelve." Harold's ears burned.

"Gimme your hands." Harold held them out for examination.

The man felt his palms roughly. "No calluses. Where did you say you're from, anyway?"

I'm a Lowe, from Penrallt. You know my father; everyone does. "A farm near Llandderfel. Ran away." That part was true enough.

"Ever been on a sailing ship before, lad?"

Harold hesitated. He had been on fishing skiffs, and of course, the punt, but nothing large... nothing like the wooden schooners that sat in the stinking harbor, with their sails, lines, and men running up and down the ropes. He was a boatman, not a sailor. "No sir," he admitted sheepishly.

"Then why the hell do you want to work on mine?" the captain asked, his eyes penetrating.

"Because being a sailor is the only thing I've ever wanted to do," Harold said honestly.

The captain must have seen something worthwhile in that statement, because he asked grudgingly, "What's your name?"

"Er... um... I..." he stammered, unable to remember the name he had made up for himself.

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that. To these men, you'll be George, hear?"

Harold flinched, but nodded. "Aye aye, sir." The last thing he wanted was to be called by his father's - and his dead brother's - name, but he didn't dare protest.

"All right, then. Come aboard, lad."

* * *

A thin stream of drool dangled from Harold's lips as he lay prone on the deck, his head hanging over the edge of the ship. He groaned as his stomach heaved again, this time bringing up nothing. There was nothing left inside him; he was totally hollowed out, in more ways than one. As he lay there, shaking and sodden with sweat, he found himself praying for death. Death would be preferable to this misery-

"Look lively, boy," the cook said, nudging him with his foot. "Skipper's on his way over."

Harold rolled over and pulled himself up into a sitting position. It was all he could manage for the moment; he was so weak that he could barely hold his head up, and the dizziness caused by the soaring and dipping of the schooner threatened to render him prone again.

The captain stopped in front of him, and Harold's gaze traveled up from the man's worn shoes, to the slops, to the jumper, and finally to his face. It was weathered and creased with lines, but his eyes were kind. "You all right, son?"

"Yes, sir," Harold croaked, wiping his hand across his mouth.

"Crew's waitin' on their dinner, you know," he reminded him.

At the thought of food, Harold's gut lurched again, and he gagged before somehow getting himself under control.

The captain contemplated him for a moment, then crouched down, knees popping, until his keen, sympathetic eyes were level with Harold's miserable own. "You know, a life at sea isn't for everyone," he said gently. "I wouldn't think ill of you if you signed off at Portmadoc and didn't come back."

_'You're never going to be a sailor.'_

Harold took a deep breath and slowly rose to his feet. Swallowing his gorge once again, he swayed, but somehow stayed upright.

He held out his hand to the cook. "Pass me a knife and those potatoes."

* * *

Funny, he didn't feel any different.

He had put his clothes back on, paid the woman, and left before his mind could even process what had just happened.

Sure, it was pleasant - while it had lasted. It felt much better than his hand, certainly. Something he'd definitely want to do again, as a matter of fact. But it hadn't changed him in any fundamental way, the way the stories implied it would, the way the priests in church had told him it would. There was nothing sacred, nothing holy, about what he had done. It was just a physical act. This morning, he hadn't known what it felt like; now, he did. It was as simple as that.

Oh, but his father would be furious with him, if he only knew. Sullying himself with a prostitute was not something a gentleman did. His father had made that very clear. Which is why it was the first thing he did once he was paid off. If his father didn't love him, maybe someone else would-

He quickly pushed that ridiculous thought away. He wasn't looking for love anyway, he told himself angrily. The notion that the act he had just performed was somehow tied up with love was for romantic, wet-eyed saps - and he most definitely was not one of those. Not anymore.

His feet turned him unerringly back in the direction of the schooner. His curiosity - and his body - satisfied for now, all he could think about was returning to the sea. Despite the misery of his first voyage, he was smitten.

It was the only mistress he'd ever love, he promised himself.

* * *

Harold's bare feet dangled as he straddled the bowsprit, watching the prow cut through the waves beneath him. He was memorizing sails.

"Flying jib, jib, and fore staysail... no, stays'l," he murmured to himself. "In that order, from the bow. And then foresail, attached to the fore mast, and mains'l, attached to the main mast, and above those, the tops'ls-"

"Hey! Boy! Get in here afore ya drown!"

* * *

Crouched on the yard at the very top of the ship, Harold let his hands run over the rigging.

"The halliard raises the sail, the braces trim the yard, the lifts support the yard when it's lowered, the sheets haul clews out to the yard below-"

"Boy! Climb down outta those shrouds! Dinner's burnin'!"

* * *

The sea dog and the boy sat in their hammocks in the fo'c'sle, several lengths of thick knotted rope stretched between them. "This 'ere's a reef knot," the old man said, showing him. "What's that one?" he asked, pointing.

"A sheet bend," Harold said promptly.

"Good. Now tie me a bowline. Quick, like. Your life may depend on it someday."

When Harold finished, he examined it. "Not bad. Faster next time, though. Now, what's the difference between a lashing and a seizing?"

"A lashing is-"

"Boy! Where are you? Cap'n wants you to learn how to trim the sails!"

Always an interruption. Never enough time. And yet... somehow, despite everything, he was becoming a sailor.

* * *

"Agent's here with the mail!"

As soon as the shout went out, sailors began drifting over to the gangway. Mail call was always eagerly anticipated, and because they were preparing the ship for another voyage, the men were anxious to receive their letters before they departed. Even though their ports of call were close to home and they never spent extended periods of time at sea, notes from sweethearts, wives, friends, and parents were treasured keepsakes. They connected the sailors to the homes and families they missed, to the people that loved them.

Harold, who was scrubbing the deck, studiously turned away.

When all the letters had been distributed, he heard the agent sing out, "Is there a Harold Lowe aboard? There's some letters here for him, addressed to this ship."

"Who the hell is that?" one of his shipmates retorted. "We don't have a Harold or a Harry on board."

Shrugging his shoulders, the agent tossed the letters on the dock.

His heart aching, Harold forced himself to leave them there.

* * *

After the four bells that signaled the end of his dog watch, Harold sought out the OS the others had told him about. He found him on the main deck, splicing rope.

"Can you give me a tattoo?"

The burly, foul-smelling man shrugged. "Sure. Whatta ye want?"

"A heart."

The man smirked. "With yer sweetheart's initials in the middle, lover boy?"

Harold stared him down, unblinking. "No. My own."

The man looked at him appraisingly before nodding. "All right. Lemme get my kit."

Harold paced the deck until the man returned. He opened a small wooden box to reveal several needles and jars of ink. Squatting on the deck, he gestured for Harold to sit as well.

"What's yer full name, anyway? For the initials."

He hesitated. "Harold Godfrey Lowe." It was time he took back his real name.

The man squinted at him. "That so? Here I thought 'twas George."

Harold shook his head. "A misunderstanding," he said steadily.

The man tied several needles together, then dipped them in black ink.

"Ye sure, lad? This is permanent," he warned.

Harold held out his right arm unflinchingly. "Sure. Just do it."

His father had once said that only men of ill repute used tattoos to mark themselves. '_They're like savages,'_ he had sneered.

As the needles stabbed him over and over, Harold squeezed his eyes shut and welcomed the pain.

* * *

The pain was unrelenting.

His entire body ached, from his scalp to the soles of his feet. They been lying in wait when he disembarked. He had known they would be, but there was nothing to be done for it. He had refused to give them his rations, had refused to do their bidding, and they made him pay the price for it once they signed off, pummeling him mercilessly with their fists and feet. Afterward, while Harold groveled in the mud, cowering with his arms shielding his head, they had spat on him. As a final insult, the ringleader slipped his hand in his pocket and nicked his pay.

"Don't look so pretty now, do you, toff?" he taunted, giving Harold one last kick in the ribs before sauntering off.

As Harold lay in a bloody, bruised heap on the ground, his humiliation and degradation complete, he heard the tough shout: "Don't you dare come back to the ship, neither." The sinister threat floated back to him over the discordant jangle of raucous laughter from the others.

"Yeah, go home to your old man, Little Lord Lowe," another chimed in, voice fading as they disappeared down the dirty alley.

Harold groaned and rolled over with an effort. He couldn't see out of his left eye at all; it had swelled shut, but he fixed his right eye on the night sky, at the panoply of stars twinkling in the heavens.

"Ursa Minor," he whispered through battered lips. "Cassiopeia... Polaris." He made a fist and extended it to the horizon. "One... two..." Fist over fist, he counted until he reached the North Star. "Five." That was a little over fifty degrees latitude. Just about right for Liverpool. And almost the same latitude as Barmouth...

He pushed away the pain, both the physical aches as well as the emotional torment, and focused on the constellations, which now slowly swirled in the sky above him.

"Perseus... Andromeda... Draco..." he murmured. "...Orion..."

Harold slipped into unconsciousness.

* * *

"You say you're an OS?"

"Yes, sir."

"You got proof of that?" Harold nodded and produced the creased and dirty letter, the one thing that hadn't been stolen from him that night.

The captain glanced at it briefly before looking back up at him. "What happened to your face?"

"I tripped. Fell down a hatch."

The man studied him for a long moment. "I don't want no trouble on my ship."

"There won't be any trouble," Harold assured him. "I promise."

"Come aboard, then."

* * *

A new ship, same conditions. The gusty snoring of his shipmates, the stench of the quarters, the squeaking of the rats. The water that always seemed to drip onto his forehead just as he was deciphering a tricky part of the ship's moldy navigational textbook.

Harold had moved up to OS... had gone from schooners to square-rigged sailing ships... but he craved more, much more. He nurtured ambitions of obtaining a berth as an AB or a quartermaster... and maybe even someday getting his mate's certificates and becoming a proper officer on a steamer. Standing watch in the shiny wheelhouse of a Cunard or White Star liner was something he fantasized about nearly every night.

And so he studied, as hard as he could, as frequently as he could, which usually meant sneaking in a few moments of reading after a brutal and grueling watch. But on this night, with the ship tossing and rolling and the torrential rain leaking into their quarters from the deck above, he found it especially difficult to concentrate.

Harold yawned, forcing his tired eyes to refocus on the words dancing on the page in front of him.

"To take a sight using the intercept method, observe the altitude above the horizon of a celestial body using a sextant and note the time of the observation," he read aloud. "Compute the altitude and the azimuth of the star using the estimated position and the data from the nautical almanac at the time of observation. Mark the assumed position on the chart and draw a line in the direction of the azimuth. Measure the intercept distance along this azimuth line-"

"Oi! Lowe! Put out that light!"

* * *

The next time Harold's feet touched land, he bought himself a sextant.

A few nights later, when the skies were clear, he approached the second mate, who was officer of the watch. "Show me how to use this," he said, holding up the instrument.

"Bugger off, lad. I've got no time for foolishness," the man growled.

Harold jingled the coins in his pocket. "I'll pay you," he countered.

The man turned toward him slowly. "All right then. You have a deal." He gestured. "Hand it over."

He examined the sextant with a grunt of admiration. "That's a tidy one, that is. You got a rich patron or somethin'?"

"No, sir."

"Did you steal it?"

Harold bristled. "Not damn likely."

The man chuckled approvingly. "That's better. Now you sound like a proper sailor."

Harold, who was still stewing from the indignity of being called a thief, didn't appreciate the man's mocking and was about to stalk away when the mate grabbed his arm.

"Now see here- what did you say your name was?"

"Lowe," he mumbled sullenly.

"Well, Lowe, if you wanna learn, come here, then."

Harold forced his shoulders to relax, his belligerence to evaporate. He took his place next to the man, who was holding the sextant up to his eye.

"First you look through the sighting scope at the horizon line. See it through the mirror? Good. That's called the horizon mirror. Now, move the index arm - no, you pillock, this part here - until you can see the Pole Star reflected onto that mirror by the one on the index arm, see?"

Harold nodded eagerly.

"Now, adjust the arm a wee bit to bring Polaris as close to the level of the horizon as possible..."

Mesmerized, Harold fine-tuned the arm and knobs and recorded angles and times as instructed, marveling as a whole new world opened up before his eyes.

* * *

Harold stood on the poop, staring out into the dark night. These days, he spent every spare second - when he wasn't on duty or sleeping, that is - next to the wheel, avidly absorbing everything he could. He and the second mate, Williams, had even struck up a friendship after a fashion.

Williams turned to him now, as Harold was peering into the binnacle. "What is the formula for calculating a dead reckoning position, Lowe?"

Harold straightened up and looked at him. "There are several variations of the formula depending on what you want to know, sir. Which variable would you like me to solve for?"

Williams rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "You're a real Jack the Lad, aren't you? Well, then. Suppose I want to know the position of the ship at eight o'clock in the evening."

Harold pondered. "Well, I'd first determine the speed of the ship. I'd get it by averaging the log reads from our noon fix to the current time. That gives her a run of eight hours to take a mean on."

"Go on."

"And then I'd multiply speed by time elapsed to get the distance traveled, sir. Of course, this would then need to be applied to the recorded heading and any directional changes."

"Right. Now tell me why dead reckoning is less accurate than celestial navigation. And drop the 'sir' shit, if you please, Lowe."

"Because it's subject to errors, s-... er, Williams. For one thing, it doesn't account for directional drift during travel through water. And both speed and direction must be precisely known at all times."

"Right again. And your calculations'd better be accurate, too. Get it wrong, and you'll end up wrecked on the shoals."

"Not me," Harold grinned confidently. "I wouldn't arse it up."

Williams laughed. "Cocky son of a bitch."

* * *

Williams barged into the crew mess where Harold was sitting at the table, tapping his pencil absently on the pages of an open book. "Captain just granted us shore leave, Lowe. You comin'?"

Harold looked up from his studies with a weary sigh. "Thank you, but I'll have to pass."

"C'mon, you bell-end. You need to get your nose outta those books. Let's get tight and pick up a few pretty tarts, eh?"

Harold, who had been smiling politely, blanched at the glib mention of going on the lash. "I don't drink, Williams. Ever."

_His father's blotchy face and bloodshot eyes... the pungent, sickening smell of spirits on his breath... the twisting grip of his fingers on Harold's arm as he loomed menacingly over him..._

Harold pushed the memories away with an effort.

Williams gave him a perplexed look, but recovered quickly. "How about those birds, then?" he persisted. "Surely you can't refuse them?"

Harold's mouth quirked up into a grin. His weakness was well known. "Maybe tomorrow," he said lightly.

Williams shrugged. "Suit yourself."

As the man left, Harold returned to the page he had been reading, his lips moving over the words: "'Vessels' Lights and Rules of the Road. A sea-going steamship when underway shall carry: On or in front of the foremast, a bright white light... on the starboard side, a green light... on the port side, a red light...'"

* * *

"All hands! Turn out you bastards!"

Harold awoke instantly. He tumbled out of his bunk along with the rest of the watch, pulled on his clothes, and clattered up the ladder to the deck, wondering with trepidation what they were going to face when they got above.

Even before he stepped on deck, though, he could tell that something was wrong; the ladder was swaying under his feet, and he nearly fell backward onto another sailor when the ship took a mighty lurch. As he staggered onto the deck at last, he took a quick assessing look around and immediately realized how dire the situation was. The calm sea that he remembered from a few hours ago during his watch had completely transformed, and was now heaving with mountainous swells. The heavily laden ship wallowed in the waves that periodically burst over the main deck, sending rivers of water and foam racing over the deck and the men.

Adrenaline and alarm coursed through him, making his body shiver in the drenching downpour. From the motion of the ship, it seemed like they had lost control of her, and as Harold let his eyes travel upward he understood why. The captain had been hard driving with all sail set - and the inevitable result was that the ship had become unmanageable. Indeed, a sudden gust of wind sent them nearly heeling over, the yards groaning with the strain as the wind caught the upper sails and threatened to tear them apart.

Another huge wash spilled over the bulwark, and Harold lost his balance, catching up against the mainmast in an ungainly sprawl. As he regained his feet, sudden anger flared up, momentarily replacing his anxiety. The unnecessary risk they had taken by cracking on in that storm-tossed sea was exacerbating the already dangerous predicament they were in. They were liable to get dismasted, or worse-

As if reading his mind, someone next to him shouted, "My God, we'll be thrown on our beam ends!" Harold looked over and saw that it was a boy, a few years younger than him, nearly hysterical with terror and panic.

Harold put a steadying hand on the boy's shoulder and spoke as calmly as his racing heart would allow. "Belay that, lad. We'll be all right. Captain knows what he's doing."

But did he? He always said he knew how much sail she could carry, but she was most definitely lugging too much. They needed to take in some canvas... but the captain had a reputation as a daredevil-

"Hands to the halliards, clewlines, and braces!"

Harold breathed an inward sigh of relief as he and the rest of the crew scrambled to their stations at the whip crack of the captain's voice. He was doing the sensible thing, then; it seemed that even his recklessness had its limits. But if they didn't hurry and shorten sail immediately, it would be too late.

"Clew down the t'gallants!" came the command at last, and Harold joined in with the other hands as they scurried from halliards to clewlines, lowering the yard and furling the sail as the gale bore down on them.

A series of rapid-fire orders followed that one: "Take in the flying-jib! Clew down the mizzen topsail! Haul up the mainsail and spanker!" His body obeyed instinctively, a product of months of hard work and constant drill to instill discipline. As the men flew frantically around the rolling deck, trying to bring the ship to bear, Harold's mind was working rapidly. From his textbook reading, he knew that the captain was trying to fling her up before the wind. But he had a sneaking suspicion that they had waited too long. In her unstable condition, if she were put before heavy seas, a mistake on the helmsman's part could cause her to veer broadside, heel over and fill as the seas crashed aboard, and probably sink if the rigging were not cut away in time-

"Put her hard up, Mr. Williams!"

Startled, Harold swiped the water from his face and glanced aft. With a sinking heart, he confirmed that it was indeed Williams at the wheel. He had been the officer of the watch, and the storm had likely come on so suddenly that he had had to push the helmsman out of the way and grab the wheel himself. His eyes were wide with fear, and he was gripping the spokes so tightly his knuckles were white.

Harold saw what was going to happen before it did. Williams gave her a little too much helm just as a gust of wind came sweeping over the waves...

The ship pitched and lurched, rolling sickeningly to starboard. With an enormous leap, Harold threw himself into the rigging, clinging to the lee braces in a death grip to avoid being thrown overboard. And from his perch, he watched in horror as an enormous comber broke over the stern, sweeping the poop. It scooped Williams up, tearing him away from the wheel and dumping him against the bulwark half-drowned and unconscious.

"No!" Harold screamed, and flung himself down from the ropes, racing to his friend's side. He was there in an instant, covering the distance between them in a few hurried bounds. Williams was still breathing, and as Harold lifted the upper half of his body out of the pooling water, he stirred slightly.

"Wake up, you bastard," Harold whimpered as he cradled Williams in his arms. Absorbed in his desperate attempt to rouse the man, he was heedless of the cacophony of sound, the frenzied motion swirling all around him, the ship still laboring in the gigantic seas, until-

"Lowe! Take that wheel!"

At the captain's roar, he hesitated, torn between concern for his friend and the absolute authority and power of the master. In the next instant, a jagged flash of lightning lit the sky like a sign from above, illuminating the deck in sharp clarity. In it, Harold saw the wheel spinning wildly, unmanned.

If he didn't do something, they were all going to drown.

That premonition was what finally broke through his indecision. He had no choice. His duty to his shipmates, as well as his own sense of responsibility, compelled him to act.

Gently, Harold lay Williams back down on the deck and then bolted for the wheel, his feet sliding on the slippery, slanting wood. But once he reached it, he saw that steering her was going to be damn near impossible. He had stood a few tricks at the wheel before, but only in calm seas. This was going to be like trying to stop a runaway freight train.

But he would do it, or die trying.

As the ship's bow rose, Harold threw all his weight against the wheel, stopping its clockwise motion and ignoring the wrenching pain in his arms as he fought the twenty-five hundred ton ship. A sudden blast of hail and rain came whipping across the deck, nearly lifting him from his feet, but he hung on grimly, refusing to yield even an inch of the hard-fought ground he had gained.

"Port her!"

With herculean strength, he carried out the order, wresting the wheel anti-clockwise, hand over hand, as the muscles and sinews in his shoulders and back tore from the strain. Slowly, inch by agonizing inch, the wheel turned, wet spokes ripping the flesh from his palms as he did everything in his power to prevent her from broaching to the waves and wind.

The ship dipped and yawed again, throwing up huge geysers of spray, and then shuddered, balancing on the knife-edge between disaster and salvation. If they were going to be taken flat aback, where a sudden reversal in the wind would press against the forward side of the sails and twist the masts out of her, it would be now-

Another deep plunge. But this time, Harold felt the helm bite into the water when she straightened herself up. The wind caught the sails, the little bit of canvas they still had on the ship strained to bursting, but he was unaware of it; he could see nothing but the blood-soaked wheel in front of him as he focused all his attention on keeping it from jolting and flinging the spokes out of his hands.

He was not conscious that he had mastered the ship - and the roiling sea below them - until he felt her charge forward suddenly under his feet. She had stopped rolling about in the troughs and was now lifting herself above the waves that dashed futilely against her sides. The gale still shrieked around them as she surged and clawed her way through the furious sea, and deluges of spray still blinded them, but the danger of being taken under had passed. In a matter of minutes they were racing before the wind, tearing through the water with everything flying, the captain bellowing himself hoarse to 'keep her full and by, lads!'.

Only once they were out of harm's way did the significance of his actions finally sink in. He had done it; he had fought the ship and won, had brought her under his control and saved everyone from impending doom. Through sheer force of will, he had once again cheated his jealous mistress from condemning him to her watery depths.

Seized by a mad, sudden exultation, he tilted his head up to the black sky. A triumphant cackle escaped his lips, building and escalating until it bubbled from him in uncontrolled bursts. The rain lashed his face as he screamed at the top of his lungs above the howl of the wind, "Look at me, Father! Look at me now!" In his ecstasy, he was unaware of both his crazed ranting and the tears streaming down his face. "You said I would never be a sailor? Well, _FUCK YOU_!"

Only Williams, who was wobbling to his feet nearby, heard his defiant declaration. But although his words were snatched by the wind, his maniacal laughter drifted forward to the men working the lines with startling clarity. And despite their relief at being out of danger, unease rippled through the watch at the unholy and unnerving sound.

* * *

Even Williams avoided him after that.

* * *

Another port, another girl.

He was better at it now; better at the act itself, better at the art of seduction leading up to it. The storm - and its aftermath - had taught him a valuable lesson: to conceal the more turbulent, unpredictable aspects of his personality. He had learned how to assimilate, to be charming and confident. And because of it, he was attracting a whole different class of women.

The one he had just tumbled was sitting up in bed, watching him. "You're not like the other sailors I've known," she remarked contemplatively, a sheet covering her modesty.

He flashed her a cocky, self-assured grin. "I'll take that as a compliment."

Her pretty face, still flushed with satiety, dimpled. "Can I see you again?" she inquired as he dressed.

He shook his head. "No. I'm sorry. I sail tomorrow. Won't be back for several months, if at all."

He turned away, ignoring her look of disappointment. She had known what she was getting into when he rented this room, when she eagerly agreed to the terms and conditions he had set. Still, he paused, suddenly hesitant. The departure was always the tricky part, the part that made him feel a melancholy tenderness at odds with his wanton behavior. "Stay here as long as you like, though. I... I hope you enjoyed yourself. I thought it was lush. Wonderful, I mean." He knew he was babbling, so he finished awkwardly, "Well, farewell then." Touching the brim of his cap, he left before she could see the hint of guilt and regret in his eyes.

That was how all of his flings ended - with a fulfilled body and an untouched heart. He refused to allow them to be anything more than empty embraces, having told himself long ago that he would never make the mistake of equating sex with love. And he didn't need love, anyway. His only love was the sea. Unpredictable, terrible, vengeful... but also beautiful, mysterious, seductive, irresistible... a living thing that offered him what his father no longer did: a place to call home.

* * *

"Letter for you, Mr. Lowe."

The captain had approached Harold while he was helping to muscle a heavy load of slate into the ship's hold. He paused, wiping the sweat from his forehead, and then turned to see the man looking at him expectantly.

Harold took the outstretched envelope and felt his heart turn over as he recognized the familiar, spidery scrawl.

His father had found him. Had written to him.

Did he dare open it?

He stared at the letter, frozen with indecision. His father was probably ordering him to come home. That was the most logical scenario, after all. If he had gone to all the trouble of tracking him down, it meant that he had been driven by strong emotions - and given his father's temperament, fury and disapproval were the likely culprits. His father had always demanded unquestioning obedience, and this time would be no different. He might even threaten to cut off Harold's inheritance - not that he gave a damn, anyway, but he wouldn't put it past his father to leverage his legacy to try and bring him back into line.

But what if he was wrong? What if it was an apology?

Harold pondered the likelihood for a moment. Was it possible that over time, his father had realized that his cruel and oppressive behavior was the reason Harold had run away in the first place? What if he had come to his senses and now regretted his actions? Perhaps the letter was his father's way of offering an olive branch, trying to make peace between them.

Sudden longing pierced his heart. That would mean he could see his mother and siblings again, maybe even patch up his relationship with his father. He could return to Barmouth, to the terraced cliffs and lush gardens of his childhood... to the comfort and familiarity of his home...

No.

Harold shook off the sentimental thoughts with an effort, berating himself for his uncharacteristic moment of weakness. He had established himself in his career, had made his own way, just as he had promised Ada he would long ago. But it was a tenuous independence. Opening that letter might dredge up his long-buried need for acceptance and love; it might even make him doubt his own resolve. A single sentence, a single word, had the power to undo all the progress he had made over the past few years. If he allowed his father back into his heart, he would belong to him forever. And a lifetime of obedience weighed against the freedoms that he had experienced when he answered the siren song of the sea... well, there was no comparison. He would forge his own path, come hell or high water.

He couldn't - wouldn't - go back to the life he had lived before.

Harold made his decision. He handed the letter back to the captain with a shaking hand.

"Return that to the sender, sir," said Harold. "Tell him you couldn't find me."

Someday, he thought to himself, blinking away the sudden mist that clouded his eyes. When he was strong enough, he would go home and try to make amends with his father. After he had earned all his certificates and become an officer. When he could stand proud, knowing that he had reached the pinnacle of his achievements.

But not today.

* * *

"Where the runaways are running the night..." - 'Greatest Showman'

'I ran away and went on these schooners, and from there I went to square-rigged sailing ships, and from there to steam, and got all my certificates...'

This was RealLowe's description of his early years at sea. There's not a lot of detail about his life from that time period, so everything in this interlude is fictional. However, because he never had a proper apprenticeship, nor did he attend any cram schools, I am making an educated guess that most of his knowledge of sailing was either self-learned, or taught by sympathetic shipmates (in this story, represented by his first captain and Williams, among others).

I am also making an educated guess about the relationship with his father - or at least, the severity of it - given that he ran away at 14 to avoid an apprenticeship, and also that his father had a problem with alcohol. I doubt that George Lowe was as hard-hearted as I've depicted here. However, worth noting is that on the Titanic's crew agreement document, where every other officer lists their current home address, Lowe has written 'on board no other', which I find incredibly sad. It also hints at the ongoing rift with his family.

Lowe's tattoo - 'HGL in heart on right fore arm' - was listed under 'personal marks' on all of his Board of Trade applications.

I am a total nautical novice, so I used multiple sources for each section on sailing and navigation to try and make sure I got the terminology and concepts correct. Even so I'm sure I have made errors; if you spot any, please feel free to let me know and I will fix them. One of my most useful resources was 'Text-Book of Seamanship, 1891' by S.B. Luce of the US Navy, which covers everything from knots to reefing sails. I also used parts of Lightoller's and Bisset's memoirs to piece together the events of this fictional storm (similar events are described by both of these men). One article in particular - 'Life in the Dying World of Sail, 1870 - 1910', by Robert Foulke - was enormously informative, and painted a vivid picture about the hardships of sailing life. All of the Titanic's officers - from Smith to Moody - learned their craft on sailing vessels. It was truly eye-opening to learn what those men had to endure - no wonder they were all so tough!

Song inspiration: Whatever It Takes - Imagine Dragons

Final note: this interlude wouldn't even exist if it weren't for my dear friend Rosie. Her beautiful and touching short, written a few months ago when I was at my lowest, inspired me to explore a whole new chapter in Harry's world, and I now consider this one of the lynchpins of the entire story - I don't think his character can be understood without it. So THANK YOU DARLING ROSIE, for all you have done and continue to do for me and for W&S! This one's for you ;)


	30. Interlude: The Hand of Fate

Thank you to all my readers that have followed me into the M section for the Harry interludes! I'm so glad to see so many of you still with me ;)

The first interlude established that many of Harry's actions are driven by his issues with his father. This father complex has also influenced his relationships with women - as we've seen from last week's short, he's become disillusioned with love. This pattern continues to right before the present day, as you will shortly see - and it's the main reason he's still single at 29 (well, that and he hadn't met Corrine yet ;)).

The second vignette is a glimpse into Harry's life pre-Corrine, and an answer to a question Corrine asked in 'Confessions' (how he ended up on Titanic). It's short, but packs a punch - and a helluva twist at the end. Important note: this is entirely fictional, and may be controversial. Mature content.

Happy Fourth of July, if you're American! Here come some fireworks ;)

* * *

March, 1912

Harold Lowe had almost reached his climax when the woman beneath him stiffened suddenly.

"I thought I heard something," she whispered.

"Nonsense," he replied, trying to hush her. At this point, he wouldn't have cared if a foghorn blew next to his head; he wanted to come. Now, where was he? Ah, yes... He found his rhythm again. Just a few more strokes, and he was sure-

This time, he heard it, too - the distinct sound of a slamming door. "It's him! My husband! He's back early!"

He groaned softly and swore under his breath at the second interruption. She was making this quite difficult. "I thought you said he wouldn't be done with his card game until four," he retorted, frustration lacing his voice.

"Well, clearly I was mistaken," she bit out. "You have to leave - now."

He looked down at her. "Well, do you want me to finish first?" he asked solicitously.

Her eyes grew heavy with desire once again. "How fast can you go?" she purred.

He smirked. "Quite fast," he whispered in her ear. And he proceeded to show her.

Whether it was the thrill of possibly being caught, or his skill (and he preferred to believe it was the latter), she soon reached her peak. He pulled out and finished on her stomach; he was taking no chances. Almost as soon as her body was done convulsing, she was shoving him off the bed.

"Get dressed and go!" she hissed at him, eyes wide with fear. She threw his clothes at him, whirled, and left the room. He heard the water turn on in the bathing room next door and shrugged. So be it, then. Wasn't the first time he was thrown out of a room, probably wouldn't be the last. It was not like he was ever going to settle down and find a wife, anyway. There was too much fun to be had in fucking around like this.

He had met this one on the docks, while he was chatting up crews looking for a new berth. He could tell by the way she sized him up, eying him up and down with that deliberate, entitled glance, that she was on the prowl - and used to getting what she wanted in life. She was middle-aged, and not particularly a looker, but he hardly cared. If an opportunity presented itself - particularly in the form of a nabob's wife - who was he to turn it down? She sauntered up to him and, after some meaningless small talk, got right to the point.

"My husband, B-" she began.

He held up a warning hand. "No names," he interrupted.

She sighed and shrugged. "Fine. My husband won't be home for another two hours. If you're not doing anything right now..." She let the sentence hang, waiting to see if he would take the bait.

Of course he did.

Now, as he was almost finished dressing, she popped her head back into the room. She was wearing a robe, and her hair was wet. "I know you said no names... but I need yours." Her look was plaintive. He knew what that meant; she was going to try and contact him again. He sighed inwardly. Wouldn't be the first time for that, either, he thought with resignation.

"It's Lowe. Harold Lowe."

"Lowe," she repeated slowly. "Lovely accent, by the way." She winked and disappeared back into the bathing room.

The swell had gone straight to his sitting room for a drink, and so Harold was able to tiptoe down the servants' stairs in the back of the house and out through the kitchen door, earning a reproving glare from the cook as he went. Safe at last, he headed down the alleyway, back toward the docks from whence he had come just a short hour earlier. He kept his head down, walking rapidly past the ships' berths. If he hadn't been so preoccupied with relief at having escaped certain discovery (and perhaps death by bullet), he might have noticed that about fifty feet away, a diminutive Irish lass was disembarking a small steamer bound from Queenstown to Southampton.

The sea-green eyes in her heart-shaped face lit up when they fastened on her uncle, who was waiting by the quay.

"Corrie, darling!" he called out.

"Uncle John!" she yelped, and ran up to him. She dropped her small trunk and gave him a warm hug and a boisterous kiss on the cheek.

He smiled happily down at her, as always buoyed by her limitless enthusiasm. "It's so good to see you again, little one. How's your da?"

She shrugged. "The same. Boorish. Pigheaded. And still adamantly opposed to my move to America." She sighed, a note of melancholy creeping into her voice. "But at least I was able to settle my affairs and say goodbye before I left."

"Ah, lass," John said, sighing. "Can't say as I blame him there. We both worry about you going all the way over the Atlantic, all on your own."

"Now, Uncle, you know Kate and Katie will be with me... and Nora, too. The four of us will be like peas in a pod, and no one will be able to touch us."

He picked up her trunk with one hand and put his other arm around her shoulders as they began walking the few blocks back to his store. "It's not just that, Corrie. I'm going to miss you something terrible." He blinked his eyes rapidly, pretending to have a piece of dirt in it, but she knew better. "And," he continued, his voice not quite steady, "the shop will never survive without you. It's been a right mess this past week without your magic touch."

She laughed. "I'm sure all is well, Uncle-" But before she could continue, she heard a low whistle emanating from the street corner directly across from them.

It was a sailor, dressed in a dark blue uniform. From the looks of him, he had just disembarked from a long voyage. A half-finished bottle of whiskey dangled from his fingertips, and his eyes were bloodshot. He eyed her up and down, and then whistled appreciatively again. "Care for a little shipboard romance, miss?" he leered suggestively, in open contempt of her uncle's outraged expression.

Uncle John tightened his hold on her shoulder reassuringly and gently steered her in the opposite direction, even though it would ultimately lead them farther away from their destination. "One piece of advice I have for you, Corrie," he said firmly. "Stay far away from seamen on your journey. As you can see, they're a bad lot, and they'll only cause you trouble."

* * *

"Bruce, I met the most delightful officer at the docks today," his wife said as she entered the sitting room.

She had sent notice down earlier that she was having a lie-in, due to yet another mid-afternoon headache. But here she was, dressed to the nines for dinner with Lord Pirrie, which would be held at their home in an hour.

She continued as if he had responded - which he hadn't. "I was taking a stroll on the wharf, as I do, and for some reason I lost my balance. And this man - who happens to be a White Star officer, and actively looking for a new assignment - well, he was in the right place, at the right time, and he caught me. Saved me from quite an embarrassing situation, really. He seemed very... competent," she finished breathlessly.

He puffed on his cigar nonchalantly. "All of my officers are competent, dear," he replied offhandedly.

She sat down next to him. Now that was rare, he thought. She hardly ever came within three feet of him, unless someone else was around to see. "If you would see fit to find him a berth on the new White Star liner, I would consider it a personal favor." She put her hand on his arm suggestively.

He looked at his wife contemplatively. She was a frigid woman, and hadn't let him touch her in years. Not that he was all that interested anyway. After all, she had nothing on the ironmonger's niece. At the thought of her lush little figure, he felt his cock stiffen involuntarily. He knew she'd make for an excellent tumble - if he could find a way around her polite and prudish refusals, that is. He would have to give it another try soon. Idly, he wondered where she'd been for the past week or so...

He noticed his wife still watching him, waiting for an answer. "What's his name?" he asked.

"Harold Lowe," she replied, as if tasting the words.

He gazed into her eyes. She really did look... eager, for once.

He sighed inwardly. Any port in a storm, he supposed.

He stubbed out his cigar. "I'll see what I can do," he said, as he leaned forward to kiss her.

* * *

Important postscript: everything about this is fictitious; Ismay and his wife did seem to have a troubled marriage, and was rumored that he had affairs, both emotional and physical, after the sinking of the Titanic. But the rest of it is purely hogwash to provide a deeper context to the current story. And as we all learned subsequently, RealLowe was an extraordinarily competent officer and that - and for no other reason - is how he got his berth on Titanic.

A story-related postscript: Harry, of course, has no idea who he cuckolded and thus his naïveté about his Titanic berth is genuine. However, there is one person who knows of both the incident and its later ramifications: Charles Lightoller. In my Titanic Extended Universe, Florence Ismay sees Sylvia Lightoller as a friend and confidante, as her husband is being groomed for command of his own vessel someday and Florence likes to make nice with the commanders' wives. And that poor smitten dear hasn't been able to get Harry out of her head since their illicit tryst (yes, he was that good). Of course, Sylvia immediately told her husband, which forms the basis of his distrust of Harry, and puts his warning to Corrine in 'Interference' in a new 'light', yes?

Final postscript: the song inspiration for this section is from my favorite rapper, J. Cole, specifically No Role Modelz and Can't Get Enough.


	31. Interlude: The Girl

Posting is up early this week because I'm going out of town this weekend ;)

Ah, last week's update was a rough one, wasn't it?! Believe me, I know ;) Mystical Myst: Good question on the true dynamics between Harry and Corrine! The short answer is yes, and yes: Harry _was_ that much of a player, and Corrine _is_ that naive. He's not playing _her_, though, and that's important to remember - although I could see why that's a legitimate concern (Rosie expressed a similar sentiment months ago when she read this ;)). This part of Harry _is_ hard to stomach. We've heard him drop hints about his past to Corrine - and to us - a few times, notably when he slipped up with the corset comment, and in his section in 'Impact', when he said he was 'no stranger to intimacy' (that's an understatment!)... even Lightoller tried to warn her in 'Interference' (because he knooooooows, haha). But, I mean, Harry's POV chapters do get squicky (I'm not afraid to make readers a little uncomfortable in the pursuit of telling a story, I guess!). Although it wasn't apparent in the last interlude, his conscience does occasionally bother him when he lets himself think about it, like he did in the first interlude. A part of him knows that his relationships shouldn't be this way - but it's going to take him meeting a certain someone before he fully realizes it ;)

To further clarify, part of the reason I wrote these two characters the way I did is to emphasize how very different they were from each other in the beginning. It was interesting to draw a contrast between this very innocent, somewhat sheltered girl, who's never experienced love, who has this wide-eyed notion of romance but has no idea what the hell she's doing... and this cynical, worldly sailor, who doesn't believe in love at all, and thinks most of the women he meets are fake and hypocritical. For me, it makes their love story more poignant; although he's been around the block before (to couch it politely), he's never had THIS (love, that is) happen before. And she makes him want to be a better person - but this metamorphosis is not without difficulty for him, because it means he has to change his entire way of thinking. AND, he has to hit rock bottom before he can rise; he's not quite reached it yet, but next week will see him there.

I warned at the beginning of this interlude section that Harry was human, with good and bad qualities... and that Corrine (and readers) are going to be uncomfortable about his past, and question his motives with her. But I hope that his flaws do not discount the truth of #harrine's story. In this chapter, which I've purposely set up as a counter to that last one, I'll let him do the talking (and convincing) on that score. This scene should seem familiar to you, if you've read 'The Key', the very first chapter of the story. It's 'When Harry Met Corrine: Harold Lowe Edition' :)

* * *

If this son of a bitch didn't stop disrespecting him, he was going to leap over the counter and punch him in the face, thought Harold Lowe.

And he'd do it, too. Wouldn't be the first time he popped some bastard for being arrogant or pompous. Harold did not suffer fools gladly - not at all. Normally, of course, it wouldn't do to engage in such antics in his employer's office, but this was a rather dire and unusual situation. He was under pressure to produce that key, and this man was being utterly uncooperative - defiant, even, though he was little more than a clerk and knew he was talking to a ship's officer.

Blair, the former second, had been bumped from the ship's roster only a day ago. That had not only upset him, but also the two officers above him - Murdoch and Lightoller - who had both had to move down a rank for the new Chief Officer, Wilde. As second officer, Blair had held the key to the cabinet holding the glasses for the crow's nest, and although he was supposed to pass it to the new second, Lightoller, before he left, he hadn't. After some frantic entreaties from the Captain, Blair had promised to leave it at the White Star office. Hence, Harold's mission: errand boy for Lightoller, who had better things to do on sailing day. And Lightoller, who already seemed to despise him for reasons that Harold couldn't quite comprehend, would never accept excuses if he returned empty-handed. Cynically, Harold wondered if Lightoller had sent him on a mission he knew would be fruitless in advance, just to upbraid him for failing.

His temper rising with his desperation, he barked, "Mr. Blair was to leave it at this office this morning. It was his duty to see to the key on this trip, and when he was reassigned, he forgot to give it to Mr. Lightoller. Even if he did not bring it here, there has to be a spare somewhere, perhaps in the back?"

And yet the man either didn't grasp the importance of the situation, or he didn't care. His smug and condescending reply about missing the maiden voyage if he didn't hurry made Harold see red, and he finally snapped.

"Bloody hell! You expect us to sail without binoculars? Into the North Atlantic, during iceberg season? We may as well sail blind, you bleeding arsehole!"

The man said something after that as well, but Harold was too exasperated at that point; he had had enough. His fist clenched, and he had to will himself to relax. Punch this man, and he'd lose his berth for sure - and he was so damn close to achieving everything he had dreamed of since he was a boy. But his anger threatened to overwhelm him, putting all of that at risk. Didn't this lazy sod understand-

And then a voice cut through the haze of his rage. Gentle but firm. Female; Irish lilt. "Excuse me - I apologize for overhearing your conversation, but I may be able to help."

What the hell? He whirled around, ready to face this new, unwelcome intrusion with more harsh words...

And found himself looking into the most extraordinary eyes he had ever seen.

They were sea-green, and they reminded him so much of the ocean that for a moment he felt he would drown in them. But it wasn't just the color that caught his attention - it was what they revealed: a soul as deep and calm as a clear, bottomless lake. Now that wasn't something he saw every day. Usually when he looked someone in the eye, his gaze bounced right back; he found most people to be shallow, without much depth or feeling at all - or at least, incapable of expressing it. But these eyes... well, it was like looking into a window; he felt like he was seeing straight into her open, honest heart.

For it was a woman he was locking eyes with - a small woman who was staring up at him with openmouthed wonder. She was looking at him strangely... as if she had known him all his life.

Odd. He felt the same way.

His eyes widened slightly at the entirely foreign sensation, and then he blinked. What the hell was wrong with him? How had he become so distracted so quickly? He needed to get back to the task at hand, but he wanted to be polite to her - the prick behind the counter didn't deserve it, but she had done nothing wrong. Putting on his smooth English accent to impress her with his professionalism, he said, "Miss, I am terribly sorry, but I am in quite a hurry at the moment. If you'll excuse me…"

And he thought that would be the end of it; she'd hasten away, back to wherever she had come from in the first place. As intrigued as he was by her, he couldn't afford to have his attention diverted. But to his utter amazement, she persisted.

"Sir, my apologies once again. But I do believe I heard you mention needing binoculars. Is that true? If so, I know a place very nearby where you can buy some. I would be happy to take you there, if you like."

She looked steadily at him and he stared back at her, trying to read her, looking for some clue as to what she was about. And she didn't keep him guessing for long; she made a subtle movement with her eyes toward the clerk, and then looked back at him. Her expression, and the gesture, was clear as daylight: I'm saving you from this mess, they said.

His mouth quirked up. So she had read the situation in the blink of an eye and finessed a way out that allowed him to keep his dignity, then. Impressive. "Miss, that is truly a kind offer. I do believe I will take you up on it." He walked out of the building without looking back, beckoning her to follow and curious to see if she actually would.

He stepped outside, holding the door, and sure enough, she emerged right behind him. While he waited for her eyes to adjust to the light, he had a chance to regain his equilibrium and appraise the situation. Who was this nymph who had commanded his full attention, anyway? He glanced at her surreptitiously, assessing her face and body with a practiced eye. He couldn't help it - it was second nature to him - but he was careful to make sure that she didn't notice. She was quite shapely indeed; he had a pretty good idea of what was under that dress, even though he could tell she was trying to hide her figure. But for once his cock wasn't doing the thinking for him. No. She deserved more respect and consideration than that - because he could already tell there was more to her than that.

His gaze traveled upward, to her face, and... well, pretty didn't describe it. Beautiful was an over-used word, and usually incorrectly applied, as far as he was concerned... but in this case, it definitely fit. Her features were delicate, exquisite... and those lips... so full and luscious, he could almost taste them-

Right, there it was; his usual response to a comely girl was still intact, then. But there was more to it than that this time... there was something endearing about this girl, something poignant that affected a new and different part of his body. It was... was that his heart? His hardened, jaded heart? No woman had ever made that move before. He gave a sardonic smile that she fortunately missed.

She looked up at him at last, and caught him staring at her. He maintained his steady gaze, however, and she broke first, turning and walking in the opposite direction of the docks, where he was supposed to be.

Harold shrugged to himself, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and followed her. It might make him a little late, but he was burning with curiosity about this girl, why she had stepped in to rescue him, and where she was taking him.

He started with the why first.

"I do believe you may have saved me from a jail cell," he drawled by way of introduction.

She looked up at him, one eyebrow raised as if in question, and he explained, "If you hadn't come along, I may have jumped the counter and beat that man raw with my bare fists." Well, it was the truth, anyway - might as well say it out loud. Surely that would scare her off, he thought.

Instead of looking affronted or afraid, though, a bell-like laugh tinkled from her throat. He couldn't believe it - that wasn't a lady's usual response to threatened violence, after all - and was so taken aback that he joined in the laughter with her. She smiled conspiratorially at him then, and teased him that he certainly would've won, but that he'd still be without his key. Her voice was high and musical, he noticed, and utterly charming.

She wasn't paying attention, and he stopped walking before she wandered into the busy intersection. "Why? Why did you do that for me?" he demanded.

And then she went ahead and surprised him again. Shrugging in an endearingly sheepish way, she replied, "Because I know what it's like to be talked to like that, and I don't like it, and I don't think anyone else should have to stand for it, either."

He almost laughed, sure that she was having him on, until he glanced over and saw her earnest, determined expression. Why, this little wisp was... defending him, he thought in wonder. After that obnoxious, blustering display he had put on, too. Who was this girl who had stared into the teeth of his fury and refused to flinch?

He looked at her intently. She really was different than anyone else he had met before - and he had traveled all over the world, met shiploads of people from all cultures and walks of life. This girl, though... she seemed to be able to strip him bare with her gaze and somehow know exactly what he needed at the exact moment he had needed it. "Thank you," he said sincerely. "No matter if we ever get those glasses, I appreciate what you did for me back there." Belatedly, he realized he had slipped inadvertently back into his native intonation. So be it; he had a feeling he didn't have to put on airs for her, anyway.

She blushed prettily, which somehow made her even more alluring. He probably could have locked eyes with her all day, except... ah, right. The present came crashing back in, and he suddenly remembered his mission. And with it came the desire to know where the hell they were going. His curiosity got the better of him, and as they resumed walking after the traffic cleared he asked, "So, that tale of a nearby store that sells binoculars. Was that complete bollocks to get me out of there, or is there some truth to it?"

He was baiting her a little with the bullocks bit; most society ladies objected to that epithet, and he wanted to see how she'd react. But she just laughed again, unfazed, and replied, "Aye, there is indeed. My uncle owns an ironmongers shop. And I happen to know that the binoculars are there, because I've been in charge of store inventory for the past two years."

He cocked an eyebrow, intrigued. So she had a job? His estimation of her rose even higher. Growing up with his overbearing alcoholic father, he had learned early the value of self-sufficiency, the importance of being beholden to no one. Apparently, those qualities were important to her as well. And he was impressed that she didn't let the fact that she was a woman stop her from earning a living.

She was looking up at him almost fearfully, as if waiting for him to chastise her; she probably heard it often enough, after all. When she saw his admiring expression instead, however, she exclaimed, "What?" rather cheekily, and then blushed again.

"I think it's brilliant, is all. Nothing better than making your own luck in life. It's how I got where I am today," he said breezily.

"Do you work on a ship?" she blurted immediately afterward. He smiled knowingly. So she had been checking him out as well, eh?

"Yes, I do. A rather big one, in fact," he replied, flashing her his trademark smirk.

"Titanic?" she guessed.

He glanced down at her. "Actually, yes."

For some reason, her eyes lit up at the confirmation. He couldn't quite figure out why; maybe because it was all anyone had been able to talk about in Southampton for weeks, or maybe she knew some of the crew onboard - she probably lived in the city, after all.

"So what do you do?"

"I'm the fifth officer. I help navigate – you know, guide the ship, make sure it's traveling in the right direction and such." Yes, he was bragging, showing off a bit, but he couldn't help it - he wanted to impress her.

Her eyes widened, and she stumbled for a second, then quickly regained her balance. "That must be exciting – and a lot of responsibility." She said it off-handedly, trying to be casual about it, but her genuine enthusiasm was apparent... and rather adorable, if he were being honest. He realized with no small measure of disbelief that she was the rarest kind of woman: an eager little innocent untainted by the world. What's more, she seemed utterly incapable of hiding her true nature; he could read her every expression like an open book. How was that possible in this day and age? he wondered.

And the way she spoke to him... she wasn't coquettish or flirtatious, like almost every other woman he had met since he first ran away from home; no, she was forthright and sincere. He didn't know what it was about this girl, but he suddenly wanted to tell her everything – pour out his heart, his dreams, his plans... "Ever since I was a lad, all I've ever wanted was to follow the sea. I've always dreamed of working one of these giant passenger liners, and now it's come true." Damn. He'd never said that out loud before; he hoped he didn't sound like a prat. Quickly changing the subject, he turned to her. He wanted to know... well, all about her, really. "And what about you? What's your dream, miss? Working at your uncle's store, or something more?"

She had just started to reply when he heard a voice behind him that made his bollocks shrivel.

"Mr. Lowe!"

Shit, shit, shit.

He'd know that booming voice anywhere. It was Lightoller, his nemesis on the ship.

Lightoller was the unofficial leader of Titanic's deck officers. Wilde and Murdoch may have outranked him, but Lightoller possessed a charismatic and charming personality that drew others to him, particularly the junior officers, in which he took a mentor-like interest - all except for Harold, of course. He had sat in the officer's smoking room several times while 'Lights', as everyone else called him, spun tall tales and told yarns, listening to them all laugh and have a right jolly time, while he hovered out the outskirts, sipping tea, puffing on a smoke, and feeling like the odd man out that he was. He was sure they were all wondering how he had gotten his berth there to begin with. Hell, he wondered the same thing himself. He knew he was damn good at his work - one of the best, if he were being entirely objective - but that wasn't always enough to get noticed in the White Star Line. Whatever had brought him to the ship, though, he was certainly out of place with that lot - and they all knew it. Of the group, only Moody had been friendly toward him from the start, and Harold wondered skeptically if it was only because he outranked him.

He turned and waited for the tongue-lashing that was surely awaiting him. And Lightoller did not disappoint. "Mr. Lowe, I ordered you to retrieve the key, not gallivant about town!" Harold wanted to roll his eyes. That wanker would say 'gallivant', wouldn't he? Lightoller continued to berate him, and Harold waited patiently to get a word in edgewise. He needed to clarify that this was not a lark; he was trying to fulfill his orders, after all, albeit in a roundabout way.

Finally, he was able to explain himself. He stood tall, stared Lightoller down, and said, "Sir, Mr. Blair failed to return to the White Star offices. This young lady here was bringing me to her uncle's store. He sells binoculars, and –"

Lightoller bellowed at him again, not the least bit interested in his explanation. "We don't have time for that!" He finally looked over at the girl beside him, acknowledging her with a terse statement of gratitude and dismissal. At least he didn't give her the once-over, thought Harold resentfully. He supposed he should be grateful for that, at least.

She opened her mouth to speak - probably to throw herself in front of another bullet for him, Harold realized. So he hurriedly said, "Mr. Lightoller, the glasses- I am sure it will take no time at all-"

To Harold's utter mortification, Lightoller reached out and straightened the rakish tilt of his cap, and Harold had to fight back the urge to retort or, worse yet, slap his hand away. Not only was the man disrespecting him, he was embarrassing him in front of this girl. What the hell was wrong with him? If he didn't know better, he would think it was personal.

And then, as if dismissing him entirely, the second officer turned his back on him and began walking away. As a parting shot, he threw over his shoulder, "I promise that once we get to New York, I will personally buy a set of glasses for every officer and lookout on board. But we must leave, now."

Frustrated, humiliated, and angry, Harold hovered for a moment, indecisive. What about the bloody binoculars? If they were important enough to send him into Southampton right before they sailed, they must be important enough for a short detour to a local store. No matter. He knew a direct order when he heard it. He was out of options; he had no choice but to return to the ship now... and yet... did he dare disobey, to do the right and necessary thing and grab those glasses for the lookouts? He glanced at the girl, and then in the direction they had been heading, and back at Lightoller.

No. He would never make it in time, and even if he did, Lightoller would have his head - or his tickets - for insubordination, and his career would be over. Harold heaved a sigh and turned toward the girl again. He was oddly reluctant to leave her side. It seemed that his failure to obtain the glasses wasn't the only lost opportunity here.

"Thank you – for everything. It means more than you know, and I won't forget it." And I won't forget you, either, he swore to himself. He tipped his cap to her, and then dutifully hastened after Lightoller.

He glanced back once, right before the crowd swallowed him up, and saw her standing in the middle of the sidewalk staring after him, the longing and regret plainly visible on her face echoing that in his own heart. He felt a strange sense of loss, as if he had suddenly been severed from a kindred spirit. He thought of the way her presence had instantly calmed the tempest of his emotions - and how unafraid she had been of him. She had been perhaps the only person he'd met that had seen the real Harold, under all the bravado and swagger, under the carefully maintained facade he had constructed to obtain his position as an officer on a passenger liner. And not only was she not intimidated or put off, she had been drawn to him... dare he say, enthralled, even. If he had a romantic bone in left his body, he might have thought that maybe he had just come face-to-face with the one mythical creature he was sure didn't exist: a girl who had the power to wiggle her way into his heart and upend his entire worldview.

And he hadn't even gotten her name.

His thoughts lingering on her smile, her eyes, her voice, he wondered wistfully if he'd ever see her again.

* * *

And now hopefully it's clear why Harry was drawn to Corrine immediately. She is the 'clear bottomless lake' of calm to his 'storm of emotions'. Ever since he was a child, the sea was his only source of tranquility... but in Corrine, he recognized his complement - and knew immediately a new sense of peace :)


	32. Interlude: The Actress

Thanks again to all my readers who have stuck around for this wild ride with me! I have lost a few followers along the way with the switch to M and the change in content (understandable!), and it makes me appreciate my ride-or-die readers all the more ;) Sam: I love your admiration for Captain Smith (and Murdoch, too!) - it's very inspiring! I have heard those stories about Smith as well, and although it's hard to say which ones are true and which aren't, they definitely contribute to the man's enduring legend, and seem to fit with his overall personality of dedication and sacrifice. A heads up: if you stick around, you might see a familiar face in the next interlude ;) Also, I'm curious to hear your thoughts on our friend Mr. Lightoller. I feel like historians have mixed feelings about him, and I'd love to know what you think!

Okay, so for this one we're back on Titanic, and Harry does a Very Naughty Thing. M rating. Warning: somewhat disturbing content. For those that don't want to read the icky: skip halfway down the chapter and assume something gross happened. The second half is PG - and contains an interaction that's a long time in coming.

This was the most difficult and uncomfortable chapter for me to post, and will probably be one of the most controversial for readers as well. However, as I said before, Harry has to fall before he can get up, and this marks his low(e) point. To exclude it would leave out an essential part of his transformation: the realization and reckoning stage. This is the last of the bad stuff (although I didn't say it was the last of the naughty stuff ;))

* * *

"I've never done this with an officer before," she said breathlessly.

"And you won't, if you don't keep quiet," Harold rasped, covering her noisy mouth with his again.

The lights of Cherbourg weren't far behind them. Still, he knew that he was running out of time. It was now or never.

He removed his tongue from her throat long enough to give her a measured look. "Well, then?"

In response, she turned around and bent over the work table he had her pressed against, lifting her skirts provocatively.

Grinning, he unbuttoned his trousers and got down to work.

He had been stationed at the first-class gangway, waiting for the Nomadic to discharge its passengers. When they had finally begun boarding Titanic, he had dutifully checked tickets and greeted the toffs politely, with the respect and deference that was expected by the White Star Line. And that's when he saw her. She was crossing the swaying gangway imperiously, almost strutting in her fashionable kimono-like gown, the latest style from Paris - or so he had been told this spring by previous lovers. She had locked eyes with him - and then deliberately, slowly, pretended to trip, arms splayed out and an expression of almost comical mock-terror on her face.

Of course he had rushed to stop her fall... and of course, she was very, very grateful, near-swooning in his arms. Her mother flew over to her side, helping her up... but she only had eyes for him as she righted herself and continued to sashay through the gangway doors.

He wasn't surprised when, a few minutes later, after all the passengers had boarded, she had asked him to escort her to the ship's hospital to be 'checked out'.

When he found out later that she was an actress, he was not surprised by that, either.

She was attractive in a way, if you looked past the snooty expression. Luckily, positioned as she was, he didn't have to see that expression at all.

"I already have a husband, and a lover," she said coyly. "I know what I'm doing."

He grunted in agreement as he pushed up inside her. She did indeed seem to know just how to position her white arse to provide the most pleasurable angle. But he wished she would stop talking. First, he didn't care what she had to say... and second, her brash American accent was beginning to annoy him.

But he was relieved he had found a willing participant in his debauchery, and that he didn't have to wait until New York to satisfy his urges. Shagging a first-class passenger in the knives storeroom on D deck wasn't the smartest move he'd ever made, though - indeed, given White Star's regulations on officer-passenger fraternization, it was an outright transgression, and one that he had adamantly refused to indulge in previously.

But he had to find a way to get that girl out of his head.

Which is why he had another girl bent over, squealing, as he thrust into her. He didn't drink; this was his drug, his way to forget.

And oh, how he wanted to forget. Forget how the girl had made him feel, forget the way she looked at him, forget the instant spark he had felt when he looked in her eyes. He didn't need that; didn't need to be distracted, to be wanting... wanting what? To see her again? To be with her? That was ludicrous - it would never happen anyway.

He groaned, straining, as the actress moaned and writhed under him. Damn. This should be more pleasurable than it was turning out to be. She was enjoying it far more than he was, urging him on with her body and voice.

Maybe it was the voice that was bothering him, he thought as he continued his laboring movements, his tongue snaking out to wet lips suddenly dry.

Or maybe, thought his traitorous mind, it's because this isn't the right girl.

Go away, he told the pretty little Irish lass that had gotten lodged in his brain. Stop haunting me.

He moved faster, gripping bony hips tightly, and the girl had to grab onto the edges of the table to keep her balance.

But it wasn't working.

Sea-green eyes...

A tinkling laugh...

'Do you work on a ship?'

He faltered.

No. It didn't feel right. It didn't feel right to be thinking of her while he was doing... this.

He slowed, feeling himself growing flaccid.

"Hey, what's wrong?" the woman said, looking over her shoulder at him. She must have noticed him softening.

He tried to fan the flickering flame of his desire again, lifting her thighs and gazing down at his cock in her swollen flesh. He had her right there, his for the taking - and he didn't want her anymore.

"C'mon," she said beseechingly, wriggling her hips against him.

He gritted his teeth. Damn it. He wasn't going to let this trollop humiliate him. He gave her arse a smack, hard enough to leave a mark and make her yelp in surprise.

"I thought I heard someone coming," he said by way of explanation. Then he leaned over her back, pressing her body into the table. "But we're the only ones coming tonight, isn't that right?" he murmured into her ear.

Just finish, he told himself grimly, ignoring the shame filling his body. He squeezed his eyes shut and rolled his hips, finding his rhythm once again as he willed his mind to blankness.

Faster and faster he plunged into her, until she cried out and he felt the spasming of her muscles telling him she had climaxed. Still, he couldn't come... he was panting, yearning for it, needing it to be over...

He conjured the girl in his head once again - the sunlight shining on her hair, her impish grin...

Her eyes...

'That must be exciting...'

The memory of her voice echoed in his head, allowing him to find his release at last.

The other girl - the one he had just finished shagging - lay sprawled across the table, skirts still bunched around her waist. He looked closer at her face. How could he ever have thought she was attractive? Despite her young age, she looked used, hard... corrupted.

He ripped off the condom he had been wearing in distaste, discarding it carelessly on the floor. He was glad he had had one in his pocket - you never know when you'll need it, that was his motto - but he never wanted to use that one again anyway. The entire experience had left a sour taste in his mouth.

Not so for her, though. "Can we meet again on the ship?" she asked as she reapplied her lipstick.

"No," he said shortly. "I'm on duty."

"What about when you're not?" she pressed. Her painted smile was flirtatious, knowing, confident.

"I'm on duty for the rest of the voyage," he said with finality. He turned away from her and buttoned up his trousers. This had been a mistake - in more ways than one. He never should've taken the risk of getting caught dabbling with a passenger while he was at sea; it was one of his most stringently enforced personal taboos, one he had never broken before. But more than that... he shouldn't have used one girl to forget another. That wasn't fair to anyone involved.

He felt sick and disgusted with himself. Now who was the performer, he thought, feeling the self-loathing twist like a knife in his gut.

After giving the woman directions on how to get to her stateroom on E deck, he bade her a curt goodbye and cut through the second-class dining room to reach the aft staircase. By the time he reached the boat deck, his features - if not his mind - were mercifully composed once again.

His watch was almost over by the time he returned to the wheelhouse. Pitman, who was working in the chartroom, called out to him, "Lights was asking for you, old man. He's on the starboard bridge wing."

Harold suppressed a groan. Lightoller again, eh? That man had been a pain in his arse all day. He wondered what he wanted now.

He walked out the door and onto the bridge, waiting for his eyes to adjust. He spotted the officer of the watch by the bulwark, his gloved hands clasped behind his back, feet spread slightly apart, staring intently out into the night.

"Passengers all boarded safely?" the older man asked brusquely, not turning his head.

Harold nodded, then realized Lightoller probably couldn't see the motion. "Yes, sir," he replied, as respectfully as he could.

"I understand there was an incident on the gangway with a young first class woman," Lightoller continued.

"Yes, she slipped, but she's fine now," Harold said, adding, as an afterthought, "sir." He stood next to the man in a perfect imitation of his pose, hoping the conversation would end soon and he would be dismissed.

Lightoller nodded. "Very well, then; carry on." He turned toward Harold for the first time, glancing at him... and Harold watched his eyes narrow as he focused on his tie. His mind whirled. Did he forget to straighten it afterward? Was there... was there lipstick on it? Lightoller leaned closer as he adjusted it, giving a sniff of disdain - and then looked up slowly, suspicion blooming in his eyes.

Shit. He must've smelled the woman's perfume on his uniform. Damn, that man is observant, Harold thought wildly.

"Mister Lowe." Lightoller pronounced the words slowly, deliberately. "It seems you have quite a bit of time on your hands lately." Harold froze, waiting for the verbal blow, for the recrimination, the accusation.

But it didn't come. "I know you just finished helping the passengers..." He deliberately left the sentence hanging for a moment. "...but I'm going to need you to stand in for Mr. Boxhall this evening. He hasn't been well; bit of lung trouble, I hear."

Harold's breath caught in his throat. That meant that he would be on watch continuously until four in the morning. Boxhall worked the opposite watch from him, and his would end right when Harold's normal watch would start. He ground his teeth but said nothing; Lightoller's punishment was mild compared to what he could have done to him.

But Lightoller wasn't finished. "I believe you have some time now before the bell, so I wish for you to round the ship, from orlop to boat deck."

"Yes, sir."

"I would like you to report back to me no later than twenty minutes from now."

"Yes, sir." That meant he would have to practically run... but he would do it. This man wasn't going to break him. He had served under tyrannical skippers and cruel ABs for too long to be intimidated by some haughty dab from Lancashire.

"You will personally see to the readings from the standard compass every bell, and will likewise take the water temperature yourself. There are also a set of star sights that Mr. Boxhall was going to calculate. You will handle those as well."

"Yes, sir."

Lightoller resumed staring out at the sea, delivering the coup de grace with his back turned. "And I believe I fancy a cuppa, Mr. Lowe. It is a chilly night, after all. If you would be so kind?"

Harold almost shot back that he could get his own damn tea and to hell with him, but held his tongue at the last minute. The order was designed to humiliate him, to bring him low and remind him of his place in the hierarchy... and it worked. "Yes, sir," Harold mumbled. He stood, downcast, and waited for the senior officer to dismiss him.

Lightoller raised a finger, as if remembering something else. "Oh, yes, one final thing. You will tell Mr. Moody that he is to be in charge of passenger boarding from now on. We wouldn't want any more... slips."

Harold suppressed a flinch. "Of course, sir."

"Dismissed," Lightoller said lazily, and Harold took off at once.

He barely made it to the officer's lavatory before his dinner came up in a rush. After he finished emptying his guts, he sat on the tile floor, his sweaty brow pressed against the cool metal wall. He knew that he had to hurry and start his rounds in order to make it back in time, but he was pummeled by wave after wave of nauseating self-contempt. How the hell had he managed to cock up everything in such a short amount of time? His actions had been revolting, selfish, crude... not at all what he wanted to be. He buried his head in his hands, willing it all to go away.

By the time he rose unsteadily to his feet, he was certain of two things. The first was that he wished he had never set eyes on that girl in Southampton.

The second was that he would give anything to see her again.

* * *

Once again it's time to remind everyone that this is fictional; this outrageous incident never actually happened in real life.

If you recall, Corrine's in her stateroom, reading Futility and daydreaming of her handsome Officer Lowe, while one deck above her Harry's debasing himself with Dorothy Gibson (that's the name of the actress he was banging). Such a contrast between their lives at this point in time!

But this is Harry's turning point. He realizes that even if he never sees 'the girl' again, he can't go back to his old ways of dealing with stress and sadness. And what do you do when your favorite drug no longer works?


	33. Interlude: The Note

Ah, thank you all once again for sticking with me! That last one was ROUGH, but the worst has passed, I promise! However, Harry's existential crisis continues ;) This interlude takes place during the chapter 'Interference'; as a brief reminder, Corrine takes Lightoller's warning about Harry to heart, and when she's on the well deck with Katie the next morning, she leaves without acknowledging him. 'The Note' picks up with Harry's POV that afternoon.

An alternate title for this interlude is 'The Return of the King' ;)

* * *

Harold sat on his settee with a blank piece of paper on his lap and a completely blank mind in his head.

What was he going to say to her?

He was terrible at writing letters. He had an entire stack of fresh creamy White Star stationery sitting in his secretaire chest, and he hadn't used a single sheet. He had thought about writing to his favorite sibling, Edgar, but what would he tell him? Besides, like Harold, Edgar was a sailor; he likely wouldn't get the letter for months, and by then any news would be stale. He wasn't all that close to any of his other siblings - he and his sister, Ada, had nursed a years-long rivalry, for one - and his father... well, that wasn't happening. Although they had established an uneasy truce a few years ago that allowed Harold to return to Penrallt occasionally, the animosity that was always lurking just beneath the surface could be stoked to a flame again with a few careless words. Anyway, the best time to post a letter would have been yesterday at Queenstown, and he had been too... preoccupied the night before that to write at all.

But the letter he had to write now was important - and necessary. He needed to tell Corrine... what? That he had spent an hour with her the day before, and wanted more - much more? That he had gone to look for her so many times today that the stewards working that end of the boat deck were starting to think he was daft? That he couldn't understand why she didn't wave at him this morning - why she pretended she didn't see him?

Yes. That last one. Why had she left? What had he done wrong?

There was only one way to find out - he had to meet with her again. And writing a formal letter to request such a meeting seemed like a harmless enough plan. But he knew even the act of writing and sending a letter would reveal that she had gotten into his head - and he wasn't quite ready to admit that to himself yet, much less to her. So it had to be phrased delicately. He mulled over it for a little while, wrote several disastrous drafts where he disclosed far too much, and crumpled them up in frustration. Ultimately, the version he decided on was simple: 'C- I would like to talk to you about this morning. Can we meet? Please give Mr. Kieran a time and place.'

He looked the note over one more time, signed it with a bold, dark, "H", and folded the paper twice.

Now, to deliver it. He already knew he wasn't going to do it in person. First, it would be exquisitely awkward to hand her a note revealing his interest in her and wait there while she read it. Second, he hadn't the slightest idea of where she was berthed or how to find her. Third... well, passing notes was a bit childish, and would only appear sophisticated if he were able to compel an underling to handle it. So he had decided to make a steward do his dirty work for him.

One bell earlier, he had sent word that he wanted to speak to the third-class chief steward. Now, just as he was rising from the settee, he heard the knock at his cabin door. In a few curt words, he explained to the man what he wanted him to do and handed over the note. The bewildered steward was obviously taken aback by his order, but he was far too professional to question an officer. After telling the steward to meet him in either the smoking room or the officer's mess with her answer, he dismissed him and closed the door.

He stood and paced his cabin for awhile, nervously passing the time by straightening up his already-messy living space. His things were strewn about everywhere: dirty shirts stuffed in corners, coats hung precariously on the corner of the wardrobe, spare ties, caps, and waistcoats thrown carelessly on the settee, navigational books (the only kind of book he ever read) open on the floor next to the bed. He hated cleaning. Sighing, he restored the room to some semblance of order, then left and headed down the corridor.

Harold peeked in the doorway of the officer's smoking room, saw Lightoller holding court there, and rolled his eyes. Right. He would wait for the steward in the mess.

He exited the officer's corridor on the starboard side and strode down the promenade. Leaving the boundaries of the officer's area and going into the first-class section always put him on edge - he never knew if he would see anyone he recognized - so he kept his cap low over his face and stared resolutely at the shining deck as he walked. Moving quickly, he soon passed the grand staircase and the gymnasium, and then the raised roof over the first-class lounge. It was a hell of a long way to the officer's mess, he grumbled to himself, but that was because of its convenient proximity to the kitchens a few decks below. The officer's food was sent up to the boat deck by hoist, and couldn't very well be carried half the length of Titanic down to the officer's area every time one of them wanted a meal. It was impractical, both for the stewards and for the officers who would have to sit down to cold victuals. But it meant that every time he was hungry, he had to make the long journey - and in between the dog watches, the trip there and back could easily take up a quarter of his free time. He supposed he had had worse problems, though. His mouth quirked up into a wry grin as he remembered some of the earlier schooners he had sailed on. Leaky quarters, moldy, weevil-ridden food, unsanitary conditions... this walk was paradise compared to that.

Harold breathed a sigh of relief as he walked into the mess. At this time of day, it was empty; most of the other officers either hadn't eaten yet, or, like Lightoller, had already finished and were relaxing in the smoking room. He checked his watch. He still had about half an hour before his next watch. Enough time for the steward to return... and maybe even enough time to see her, if the response was positive, as he expected it would be.

He rubbed his temples, exhausted. Part of his two-hour break this afternoon had been spent escorting a first-class lady around the boat deck at the request of Mr. Wilde and mulling about Corrine - and he was still dwelling on her, which is what had prompted the note. She had snubbed him that morning when she was on the well deck, he was sure of it. He knew she saw him, and yet she walked right in that door without acknowledging him, and without looking back. That had hurt a lot more than it should've, to be honest... and it didn't fit at all with what he thought he knew of her.

Women, as far as he could tell, were all raging hypocrites. They expected perfect manners and language in public; appearances had to be maintained, after all. But between the sheets, they wanted decidedly ungentlemanly behavior. He saw through it all, and that was why he had never been interested in continuing any of his flings; doing one thing in public and another in private was too exhausting. But Corrine was different; with her, he had been set free of those public restraints. She had laughed at his temper, at his foul mouth; she didn't give a damn about any of it. She was carefree, refreshingly honest, and totally uninterested in propriety and respectability. He wondered if she would be just as shameless and uninhibited in bed...

He blushed; it was way too soon to be thinking such things, especially when she was giving him the cold shoulder. What the hell had that been about, anyway? he wondered again for the hundredth time that day. Was she playing hard to get...

\- Or had she learned something about him that made her never want to speak to him again?

As soon as the thought occurred to him, his heart sank. He had a sneaking suspicion that he already knew the answer to the question. While Harold was barreling headlong down the boat deck for the bridge the previous afternoon, Lightoller must have taken the opportunity to pounce on the girl. He damned himself for a fool for not realizing it earlier. The second officer had likely recognized her from Southampton, probably picked up on the spark between them as well... and decided to make sure it went no further than that. It wouldn't have taken much; Lightoller would certainly have nothing good to say about him, and he surely wouldn't have held back. He probably told her that Harold was a rake and a scoundrel; he wouldn't put it past him.

His breath caught in his throat. What if he told her about the Cherbourg incident?

His rather alarming reverie was interrupted by a knock at the door. With relief, Harold saw that the steward had returned. He waved him in, and the man approached reluctantly.

"Well?" Harold barked, his impatience and nervousness making him terse.

Mr. Kieran looked anxious. "Er... well, actually... she..." He trailed off.

Harold glared at him until he finished lamely, "There's no message, sir."

"What? Are you sure you gave the note to the right girl?"

"Yes, sir. She read it, and her face got really pale, and then she just stood there until I asked her for a reply. And she said there wasn't one," he repeated.

Harold nodded his head slowly. "Thank you." The man took his cue and left in a hurry, likely relieved to be done with this strange task.

Harold waited until the steward was out of sight before turning away from the door and giving vent to his raging temper. "Goddammit!" he roared at the top of his lungs. Why had she spurned him? He had humiliated himself, thrown himself at this girl, only for her to tell him to sod off. What a fool he had been! And to think he had been starting to have feelings for her-

Suddenly, he felt like he was choking. He tugged viciously at the knot of his tie, yanking it loose, and then clawed at the buttons of his coat until he had torn that off as well. He flung it to the floor, then tore the cap from his head and whipped it across the room.

Still, it wasn't enough to ease his frustration, his fury... his hurt. He pounded his fists against the table. "Fuck!" he shouted. He slammed them again, harder, hoping that the physical pain would deaden the emotional one.

"Language, Mr. Lowe," said a mild voice behind him.

His blood froze in his veins, and for a long moment, he was unable to move. Finally, he forced himself to turn around.

First Officer Murdoch stood in the doorway, taking in the chaotic scene - the clothing strewn about the room, the fuming, half-undressed man in the center - with a calm, relaxed expression.

His mind a tempest, Harold could only stare at him, mouth agape, as his heart sunk to his feet.

Capital luck, mate, he berated himself once his brain started working again. In the span of only a few days, not one but two superior officers had seen him either misbehave or lose his composure. At this rate, he'd be fortunate if he made it across the Atlantic alive and employed.

And yet, there was no judgement in the man's face as he looked steadily at Harold. If anything, he seemed mildly amused.

Harold found his voice once again. "I'm sorry, sir, I-"

Murdoch waved it off. "I suppose I'm the one who should be sorry, Mr. Lowe. All I wanted was a quiet room to drink a spot of tea, and I find that I'm interrupting a junior officer who felt an urgent need to strip and throw a tantrum." His Scottish burr resonated with gentle humor.

Harold hung his head, embarrassed. What a colossal cock-up he'd become. How was he going to justify himself to this man? But Murdoch didn't seem interested in an explanation - at least, not yet. Apparently his motive for coming to the mess was genuine, for he looked at Harold expectantly.

"Tea, Mr. Lowe? I suspect it might help whatever's ailing you."

Harold was taken aback at the man's thoughtfulness. He didn't think more than a dozen words had passed between them before this, and all strictly business at that, but here he was, offering to sit down to a cuppa like they were old schoolmates. And to his surprise, Harold found himself receptive to the idea. A natural loner, he found it difficult to get close to anyone, and especially preferred to remain aloof and guarded from fellow officers. In the back of his mind, he always feared that letting others see his true self might jeopardize the professionalism - and the career - he had worked so hard to cultivate; it had happened before with Williams, after all. But this man had already seen the worst of him, Harold realized with resignation, so his dignity was already in tatters. And besides, he could really use the company right about then.

He nodded. "Thank you, sir, I suppose I will." Then he realized that he should probably be making the tea for his superior, not the other way around, and bounced in front of Murdoch to get to the kettle.

"At ease, lad," Murdoch said, holding up a hand. Harold noticed that the man had slipped unconsciously into a less formal manner of address, but he rather unexpectedly found that it didn't bother him. "I like my tea a particular way, and anyway I don't mind taking care of myself." The rebuke was mild but firm, and Harold immediately halted, allowing the older man to pass by him on his way to the pantry.

Harold heard Murdoch rummaging around in the adjoining room, followed by the sound of the teakettle beginning to bubble. He took the opportunity to gather his scattered clothing from around the room - the second time in half an hour that he had performed the same task, his sarcastic mind noted - although he didn't put the uniform back on just yet. He was covered in a thin sheen of perspiration - a combination of residual anger, nervousness, and restless energy - and he didn't want to get his white shirt any sweatier than it already was. He laid the pieces on the back of a chair, sat down in a neighboring one, and contemplated his rapidly deteriorating mental state while he waited.

What in hell was wrong with him, anyway? He had learned to control his explosive temper long ago; it was a point of pride for him that he was able to overcome his natural inclination for emotional outbursts through sheer force of will. And yet in the span of a few days - only two days! - he had entirely lost all his self-restraint. His intuition told him it had something to do with Corrine. He put his head in his hands and sighed. Why had she gotten so deeply under his skin?

Murdoch soon emerged with two steaming cups of tea and handed one to Harold. Murdoch's tea was darker, Harold noted, with very little milk. Probably hadn't added much sugar, either, if he had to guess; he looked like the type to enjoy his tea strong and undiluted. Harold's was, blessedly, lighter. He took a tentative sip. Extra sweet, too, just like he preferred. He wondered how Murdoch knew.

The hot tea smoothed away some of the jagged edges of his mood, and he relaxed, leaning back casually in his chair. As he did, he studied the man sitting across from him. He knew very little about Murdoch, actually. He had already formed a first impression of his other fellow officers:

Wilde: friendly, but reserved; an air of mystery and tragedy

Lightoller: judgmental tyrant; supreme tosser; general all-around pain in the bollocks

Pitman: good-natured; mild; bland as boiled potatoes, but a decent bloke

Boxhall: arrogant; meticulous; uptight; remote

Moody: jolly; energetic; eager... and despite their night-and-day differences in personality, Harold found himself genuinely enjoying the company of that gregarious and personable lad.

But this one he couldn't really read at all. Harold knew Murdoch had been bumped from Chief to First only a few days before sailing, but if he was still harboring any resentment or bitterness about his demotion, it wasn't evident. Either he hid it well, or, more likely, he was just a consummate professional who didn't let emotions get in the way of his duties. Harold envied men like that.

Murdoch stirred the liquid in his cup, set the spoon down, and looked up. "So who's the lucky girl?" he said by way of starting the conversation.

Harold almost choked on his tea. He set the cup down and stared at Murdoch, flabbergasted. "How... Why-"

Murdoch shrugged. "Instinct. It can't be anything work-related; we've had nothing but smooth sailing since we left Southampton. Well, other than the New York incident," he amended, his expression thoughtful. "And I don't know you well, but you seem the type that might get in trouble with women quite a bit."

From anyone else, it might have sounded critical and disapproving, but he didn't get that sense from Murdoch. It was a blunt statement, but not an offensive one. And, Harold had to admit, it was a truthful one as well.

When Harold didn't answer right away, Murdoch asked, "Is it the girl you escorted around this afternoon?"

Harold snorted. "Not damn likely," he said, and then immediately regretted his choice of words. "Sorry, sir," he mumbled.

"I have no real objection to your unparliamentary language, Mr. Lowe. I was just taking the piss earlier." Lowe looked at him in astonishment, and Murdoch shrugged. "Senior officers are no different from juniors, you know. We're not saints. And we're really not as strict as all that." He smiled, and Harold found himself smiling back.

He remembered Lightoller's stern looks, and his smile faded somewhat. Murdoch's statement wasn't entirely true; some of them were intolerant, thick-headed, overly-critical bullies, amended Harold in his head. But maybe this one was a human being after all. He mood began to lighten again, but he was pulled up suddenly by the next line of questioning.

"And then there's the one you shagged at Cherbourg," Murdoch put forth casually. He raised an eyebrow and took a deliberate sip of his tea.

For the second time that day, Harold's mouth hung open in speechlessness.

Murdoch smiled again. "Relax, Mr. Lowe. It's not going any higher than me. I know how to keep secrets." He threw Harold a sly wink.

Harold blushed in mortification. "But- I mean, how do you... "

"Charlie's a bit of a bigmouth and a busybody," Murdoch admitted. Harold's eyes hardened. Mentally, he added 'nosey prat' and 'gossipy old maid' to the growing list of Lightoller's traits. "But it's not unheard of," Murdoch continued. His eyes twinkled. "I'll wager we've all done it at least once, in our younger and unmarried days."

Harold goggled at him. Well, that was a revelation. He tried to imagine tight-arsed Lightoller shagging a passenger, and couldn't wrap his mind around the idea. But he realized Murdoch was still waiting for an answer. "No sir. Definitely not that one." He suppressed a shudder and took another gulp of tea, as if to get the taste out of his mouth.

Now Murdoch looked genuinely curious. "Right. So if it's neither of those admittedly sensible prospects, then who's the lucky lady, if you don't mind my asking?"

He remembered Corrine's strident objection to being termed a lady and smiled. "Actually, she's not a lady per se." He looked away. "She comes from... er... a humble background."

"And does that bother you?" Murdoch prodded gently.

He shrugged, and then immediately hated himself for his momentary shame. Why should he give a damn about her social class, anyway? It shouldn't matter; it didn't matter, not really. It was just that... well, he never socialized with working-class women, never really interacted with any aside from the servants that worked at his father's house, or the occasional clerk or stewardess. He just moved in different circles, that was all. Not to mention that his genealogy-obsessed father would be absolutely horrified that he had designs on the daughter of a handyman. And she was Irish and Catholic to boot. He sighed. Honestly, he couldn't have picked a more inappropriate match if he tried.

Harold squared his shoulders. No, he refused to feel embarrassed by her lack of pedigree; she was the equal or better of any society woman he had ever known. Never mind what his father would say, anyway; he would never meet her, after all. He lifted his chin. "No, sir," he said, his voice wavering only a little.

Murdoch chose to ignore Harold's hesitation and ambivalence. "So what's got you worked into such a frenzy, then?"

Now it was time for a little lie, a little truth. Harold sighed. "I had sent her a letter recently, declaring my... affection... and she... well, she didn't respond favorably." He wasn't going to reveal that Corrine was a steerage passenger; he had enough of a reputation among his superior officers for mingling with passengers already. Let Murdoch think that she was some sweetheart from home, and that he had heard from her via wireless or the Queenstown post yesterday.

Although come to think of it, he was shocked that Lightoller hadn't blown the gaff on Corrine as well. He wondered briefly why the senior officer chose to hold onto that particular secret. Was it because he thought Harold's flirtation with her was more innocent and harmless? Or was he trying to protect her for some reason?

His speculation was cut short by Murdoch's hearty laugh; for some reason the man had found his confession highly entertaining. Seeing Harold's confused and offended expression, he amended hastily, "Sorry, lad. I meant no insult. But there's your problem right there. Letters are for old ladies."

Harold raised a questioning eyebrow.

"You can't possibly expect to convey your feelings properly through writing," Murdoch patiently explained. "You're going to have to wait until you see her in person, and then pour your heart out."

"You mean you don't write your wife letters?" Harold asked skeptically. He wasn't taking a guess; he knew the man was married. If the wedding ring on his finger hadn't given it away, the light in his eyes when he spoke to Lightoller about 'Aid', as he had called his wife, would've clued him in.

Murdoch rolled his eyes, exasperated. "Of course, lad. I write her all the time. But that was after we had already declared our feelings for one another in person," he emphasized. "I wouldn't have entrusted something as important as our future to a piece of paper."

Harold grunted in grudging agreement. The man had a point, he realized.

Now Murdoch leaned toward him, his expression earnest. "You care about this girl, do you?"

Harold found himself nodding his head before he could even fully process the question. Murdoch chuckled at the look of almost comical surprise that crossed Harold's face immediately following the admission.

"That's news to you, too, eh? Well, that's between you and your heart, lad, and I hope the two will come to terms someday. But now that you know, you owe it to her to look her in the eye when you confess your feelings. She has to see that you're sincere."

Murdoch took note of Harold's dubious look. "I know it's uncomfortable, but you're just gonna have to man up and do it. How else will you know if your feelings are returned? I remember when I first told Ada I wanted to court her I was bricking it. But I shouldn't have been." His face crinkled up in a wistful smile. "She said later she knew she was going to marry me from the moment we first met."

"Never argue with a woman who knows what she wants," Harold retorted with a grin.

Murdoch got a faraway look in his eyes, and Harold knew he wasn't seeing him, but the face of his beloved wife. "The last thing I'd ever want to do is argue with her. I know how lucky I am. My Ada's lively, intelligent - and the most beautiful woman in the world," he said softly. Silently, Harold disagreed with him on that last point; even in her modest clothing, with no adornments, he was sure that Corrine would eclipse even the world's most famous beauty. As soon as the thought crossed his mind, he wished for a swift kick in the arse to rid himself of his ridiculous romanticism. This infatuation was making him mental.

"She sounds like a rare woman indeed, Mr. Murdoch," Harold said with respect. In truth, he was touched by the man's obvious adoration of his wife. It was like no other woman even existed at all as far as he was concerned. Harold wondered if he would ever feel that kind of all-consuming love. Maybe-

No. It was way too soon to be thinking such things.

Murdoch gave a quick shake of his head, as if trying to bring himself back to the present. "Mind what I said, lad. Go to your girl. As soon as you can." Harold noticed that he was unconsciously fiddling with his wedding ring as he spoke. "And I hope the answer is favorable."

Harold nodded slowly. "Thank you, sir. I... I think I will." And he would, he realized. Murdoch's advice was sound... but more than that, it was what Harold wanted - and needed - to hear. He rather enjoyed having someone to talk to about this, he realized with surprise. And he liked knowing that he could trust and confide in this man.

Murdoch inclined his head, as if satisfied with Harold's answer, and checked the time. "You should head to the bridge now for your watch, Mr. Lowe. Lights'll probably already be there."

Harold couldn't quite suppress his scowl at the mention of Lightoller's name, and Murdoch noticed.

"Ah, lad, don't be like that," he said gently. "Charlie's a good bloke - and a loyal friend. I'd trust him with my life. I know you two got off on the wrong foot, but give him a chance, eh?"

Harold wasn't about to argue with him, but he didn't want to agree either. He grunted noncommittally, which he hoped was enough of a compromise.

But he didn't want to leave before getting one more thing off his chest. "Thank you, sir. For listening to me, and for the suggestion." He paused, then decided to take the plunge. "This is... this is the most kindness anyone has shown me since I signed on."

Murdoch cocked his head. "I don't know about that, Mr. Lowe... seems that Mr. Moody took a shine to you right away," he replied mildly.

Harold nodded his head. "True. But, well, everyone else..." He trailed off, studiously staring down at the floor.

"Ah," Murdoch said softly. Harold looked up and saw to his chagrin that the man's face was lined with sympathy. "And here I thought you were a hard case, Mr. Lowe. Turns out you do have feelings; you just hide them pretty well."

Harold spluttered, but Murdoch cut him off. "You have to remember, you're one of the most junior officers on the bridge. And we don't know you from Adam," he said by way of explanation.

"So that's why everyone avoids me? I thought it was because I'm a loud, abrasive, obnoxious prat." Harold grinned self-deprecatingly.

"Well, that, too," Murdoch laughed. His refreshing bluntness made Harold chuckle in return. "You're a rough diamond for sure, lad," Murdoch continued. "A good deal more unpolished than most of us in the North Atlantic runs are used to."

Then he shrugged, taking the sting out of the criticism. "But you'll get to know all of them soon enough, and I'm sure they'll warm to you. I've been watching you. You're clever, conscientious, and a fine sailor. You'd be a handy bloke to have around in an emergency, God forbid. The rest'll see your merits too in time."

Harold flushed bright red from the unexpected praise. Once again at a loss for words, he could only clear his throat and nod his thanks.

Murdoch ignored his obvious discomfort. "Go on, then. I'll see you in a few hours."

Harold took one final sip of his tea and stood. "Aye aye, sir," he said flippantly, grinning.

He was almost at the door when he heard Murdoch's voice again. "Forgetting something?" Harold turned and saw Murdoch nodding at the pile of clothing still sitting on the back of the chair. With a gasp, Harold rushed back in and quickly struggled into them. He was still buttoning his coat on the way out the door when he heard Murdoch snickering to himself.

Harold walked back to the bridge with renewed purpose. Murdoch was right. If he wanted to continue to spend time with Corrine - and he did - then he would have to be persistent. There were obstacles to overcome, for sure: company regulations, a meddlesome superior, different backgrounds, perhaps even opposing dreams - she was moving to America after all, a place he found highly objectionable. But he was determined to let nothing - and no one - stand in his way. Tomorrow morning after his watch ended, he would go down to the third-class section and find her. No matter how long it took, no matter how it might look to the other passengers and crew, he would stay there until he spoke with her, until he set things right - until he convinced her to give him a chance. His natural persuasiveness and charm would eventually have to win her over. Confident of victory, he smiled to himself as he opened the door to the wheelhouse. No, he wasn't going to let this girl get away.

Inside, he nodded a greeting at Pitman and threw a haughty look at Lightoller, who was getting ready to take over from Wilde. As he walked back to the chart room and refocused his mind on the task of ship navigation, he also mentally revised his list of officer traits. To Murdoch's, he would have to add: perceptive; intelligent; compassionate. Devoted.

A hell of a good man.

* * *

Murdoch! *cries*

I didn't always love Murdoch; Wyn Craig Wade may have inadvertently prejudiced me against him by criticizing his decisions the night of the collision. But the more I have read about him - and the more I watched Titanic - the more I have come to respect and admire him - and he's now my third favorite officer. And hopefully now it makes sense why Harry was so broken up about his loss in 'Unease'; at that time I hadn't revealed that they had had any interactions at all, but I knew this interlude was coming, and that's why I alluded to it then.

Songs for this section: Some Kind of Disaster - All Time Low(e); What A Man Gotta Do - Jonas Brothers


	34. Interlude: The Revelation

More Harry fun. This occurs a few hours before the ship hits the iceberg, and it's the NSFW scene I was referring to in 'Impact'. And remember, I never explicitly stated then who was (or wasn't) involved in the scenario :)

Warning: adult content. Very adult. Uncomfortably adult. This is your last warning, haha. But as usual, my saucy scenes have a point to them - if you can get through some more discomfort, you'll see what I mean.

* * *

Harold desperately needed sleep, and wanted to fall asleep very badly, but there was one small problem.

Actually, it was one big problem.

He couldn't stop reliving his tryst on deck with Corrine last night - and as a result, his cock was hard as a rock.

Fortunately, work had distracted him for most of the day; he couldn't very well fantasize and maintain a hard-on while he was taking compass readings, working the slip tables, and calculating a dead-reckoning position.

But once he retired below, his mind immediately returned to her - as it had earlier, when he had a few hours' rest between the noon watch and the dog watch. After he sent the rose down to her, he had sat in the officer's mess and daydreamed about her, forgetting to eat the meal before him and completely ignoring everyone around him. When Pitman elbowed him and reminded him that they would be back on watch soon, he hurriedly gulped down the cold food and tea and rushed down to A deck to see if he could catch a glimpse of her before his watch. Unfortunately, she hadn't been outside, and, disappointed, he had returned to the chart room.

Now, though, he had a few hours off before the midnight watch, and although he wanted to see her more than he wanted to breathe, he knew if he didn't get some sleep, he would collapse.

And yet, here he was, frustrated, with a throbbing, aching arousal.

Like a dog worrying a bone (and the irony of that simile was not lost on his poetic mind), his thoughts circled back to the events of the night before. How did she get so wet? he wondered now. She had drenched him last night; his trousers hadn't dried fully for at least a half an hour afterward. He had never known a woman to leak that much before - didn't even know it was possible. She must be exquisitely sensitive, too, if she had been that stimulated by what they had done. All it took was a few kisses and some friction, and she had damn near exploded on him. Shit, he hadn't even touched her. He couldn't wait to see what she could do when he actually put some effort into it...

Damn it. This wasn't helping. He looked down at the tent in his pajama bottoms and sighed.

Right. He was never going to get to sleep if he didn't rid himself of this issue and get some relief. Reluctantly, he reached down and gripped his cock in his hand.

He hadn't had to touch himself in a long time. He had become a man at the age of fourteen when, after signing off on his first voyage, he had found the nearest brothel and spent his wages on a decent-looking prostitute who had willingly rid him of his virginity. Since then, he had found far more pleasurable ways of finding release - and he had rarely had to pay. There were a surprising number of middle- and upper-class women in ports all over the world more than willing to sleep with a handsome sailor, he had found - especially when he plied them with honeyed words and a breezy, confident attitude. And with the constant availability of willing female flesh, he had not had to resort to his own hand in ages. Besides, he had more discipline than that, and pleasuring himself made him feel weak and dirty. But in this case, he deemed it necessary. He couldn't very well walk around with a stiff cock for the next few days until they reached New York, could he?

Ah, New York. He would have a few precious days before he set sail back to England again... and he intended to spend every second he could in bed with Corrine - if she let him. And he thought, based on last night, that she just might. The way she was rubbing herself all over his cock and moaning... oh, she wanted it, and badly, too.

The memory of their passionate embraces stirred him more, and stroked himself a little faster.

She had been so eager; if he hadn't known better, he would have thought she was a professional by the way she moved on him. There had been half a minute when he had even contemplated unbuttoning his trousers and entering her right then and there, despite having guessed her virgin status as soon as he had first kissed her. With all that lubrication, and her obvious arousal, it probably wouldn't hurt her that much... and if he let her come first by dry-humping him, the entry would have been even smoother for her, as the orgasm would have loosened her up, made her less tense and tight. Fortunately, however, he had come to his senses, although none too soon. Of course later he berated himself mightily for being such a heartless, inconsiderate cad for even thinking it, but in the heat of the moment... damn, he had barely held himself back.

Oh, his own arousal was quite painful now. He needed to come, and badly; reliving the moment was prolonging the torture for him.

Of course, he knew she wasn't like the wanton women he was used to bedding, though; he would have to be very, very gentle with her when he finally did take her for the first time. But, just for a minute, he imagined that he had broken her in already, that he had taken her maidenhead and filled her with his cock... and she was gazing up at him with those incredible, expressive eyes, and begging him to go faster... harder...

In response, he went faster and harder on himself, a low, urgent moan escaping his lips.

His imagination continued to churn out fantasies, and he pictured gripping that plump arse in his hands, squeezing it as he drove into her, lifting her at just the right angle...

Shit. He was almost there. He moaned louder, his hand moving rapidly as the images continued to play vividly in his mind.

She would be wild for him, and he would demand that she scream his name as he pumped into her, making her come apart under him. And right before he strove for her core and exploded inside her, he would gaze deeply into her eyes and whisper that he loved her...

Wait a minute. What?!

But it was too late. That last image, that last thought, had sent him over the edge. With a gasp, he erupted suddenly.

He lay there stunned for a minute, not merely from the force of his orgasm, but from the realization that had so cleverly hidden itself from his consciousness until that very moment.

He... loved her? How was that possible? He wasn't even sure he knew what that meant. Sure, he respected and admired the hell out of her, was fascinated by her, desperately wanted to spend more time with her, wanted to protect her and would do anything for her... wait... was that love?

He thought of her conspiratorial and empathetic looks when they first met in Southampton, her bravery in scuttling up the ladder, her utter insolence when delivering the rude and dismissive gesture to those toffs, the trusting way she had clung to his arm when she was afraid, the enthralled attentiveness as she listened to him tell his life's story, the flirtatious, saucy way she looked up at him while she rid him of his uniform, the uninhibited, free expression on her face as she danced on the tables in the steerage general room, the wonder in her eyes as she gazed up at the stars...

A lifetime of precious, unforgettable memories in only a few short days. A whirlwind of events that made everything prior to meeting her seem gray and meaningless. And when he tried to imagine being without her, or losing her... well, it was devastating, unacceptable.

That last epiphany erased any doubt that still lingered in his mind.

So this is love, he mused in awe. Now I finally know. Unseen in the dark, he grinned from ear to ear.

His hand touched the sheets and came away sticky, bringing him out of his reverie with a start. Shit. What a mess he had made. He leaped out of bed and snatched the dirty shirt he had carelessly tossed in the corner earlier, and cleaned himself and the sheet before throwing it back where he had found it. Better make sure I wash that one myself, he thought wryly.

He flopped back on the pillow and sighed. His head was a whirl of thoughts, of giddiness at his revelation, the newness of a feeling he had never expected to experience. From this point on, the course of his life would be altered irrevocably, because her name had been carved into his heart, as sure as his own initials had been tattooed on his arm. And the knowledge that he loved her meant that he would not - could not - take the physical aspects of their relationship lightly. When the time and place were right, he would initiate her into the joys of lovemaking. He would teach her everything... and she would be his, would belong to him utterly, forever. But he would have to be responsible about it, make sure everything was perfect when it finally happened. He wanted it to be a memory she would treasure for the rest of her life - which, if he had any luck at all, would be spent with him.

So, although he was a bit ashamed of himself for losing control and being forced to satisfy his needs like that, he knew it had to be done - for her sake. He had needed to take the edge off of his lust so that the next time he saw her, he would behave himself like a gentleman, like she deserved... he wouldn't be tempted to yank up her skirts and bend her over the nearest flat surface so that he could take her from behind...

Impossible.

He was getting hard again.

He groaned and rolled over on his stomach, resolutely ignoring the returning ache. Go to sleep, Harry, he told himself, unconsciously using Corrine's nickname for him. The sooner you sleep, the sooner you can wake up and search out the woman you love.

The thought was still new to him, and it made him smile, a goofy, sloppy grin that ate up his face.

He finally fell asleep, still smiling, dreamily fantasizing about sneaking her up to his cabin and showing her exactly how much he loved her, and wondering if Pitman and Moody would mind the indecent noises coming from behind his door.


	35. Interlude: Advice

Hello faithful readers and thank you once again for sticking with me through all the highs and low(e)s! Lowekey: YES, I am glad you were uncertain about Harry's feelings for Corrine until that last interlude! I wanted to purposely make that ambiguous until the 'Revelation', to keep people guessing as to whether he loves her or not (one might have thought that he didn't, given what happened on the Carpathia, but now we know better!). As for Harry being a sex maniac (hi, guest reader!), I agree it could be read that way... however, I would hesitate to put a reductive label on his behavior. Harry is a very complex character - much more so than Corrine, who, although she's definitely insecure about whether she's 'worthy' of Harry, had always accepted (or at least hoped) that she'd find 'the one' someday. Harry - not so much. Over the interludes, I've tried to show that he's developed a very particular (and controversial) way to deal with his loneliness, pain, and insecurity...which makes what happened to his heart all the more remarkable. It's been a hard-fought journey for him to get to where he is now.

Now that the worst has passed, I can't tell you all how difficult it has been for me to post some of these interludes (I'm sure you know which three I'm referring to!); I literally had to hold my breath and close my eyes before I hit 'submit', haha. I realized that they may make Harry unlikeable, or negatively affect the #harrine 'ship'. Some readers may feel betrayed by the relative innocence of their story in the beginning, because this rather questionable part of Harry's personality might not have been immediately obvious back then (although there were hints!). But this has always been the plan; it just took a very special person - my dear Rosie - to convince me to be true to the story I wanted to tell, despite my fear of pushing readers away. If these interludes have resonated with you, if they've provided meaningful insight into Harry's personality, the credit should go to her; if they've seemed gratuitous or offended you, though, the blame is all on me. My final word on the matter is this: I never intended for #harrine to be a straightforward, linear romance. These two not only have to overcome extraordinary circumstances, they also have to grow as people (specifically Harry does). Because I feel a love story is more meaningful if a couple has to really earn it ;)

All right, we've heard enough from Harry for awhile, haha... it's time to get someone else's perspective. In this final interlude before the main story resumes, you'll get to hear the terse, no-nonsense voice of our catalyst for the first time. It occurs after the events in 'Unease' and the forthcoming Ismay meeting mentioned in that chapter.

Beatrice3, in answer to your comment from before, starting next week we'll get to see if Corrine can pull herself together. I hope you all will keep reading for the final part of the story ;)

* * *

Charles found him leaning on the stern railing, smoking a cigarette and staring desolately out to the sea.

He approached him cautiously. The man had been unpredictable lately - more so than usual, even - and he wasn't sure what to expect. But he had a request from the captain, and he wasn't going to back down just because this young upstart was a hard case.

"Mr. Lowe," he said by way of greeting.

The man just grunted. Charles suppressed his annoyance. He may not be his commanding officer anymore, at least not officially, but he still outranked him; Lowe should show more respect than that.

"Captain Rostron wants to know if you'll relieve Mr. Rees for the eight to midnight watch," he said, more abruptly than he had intended.

"Certainly," came the weary reply.

Charles raised his eyebrows, surprised he didn't argue. He looked closer at him. With Smith, Wilde, and Murdoch gone, the mantle of command had fallen squarely on his shoulders, and he felt a responsibility toward all of the survivors, from Mrs. Astor down to the lowliest stoker. And yes, he thought ruefully, for this cranky junior officer as well. The anguish on Lowe's face told him that something was on his mind... and Charles supposed he should try to find out what it was.

"What's eating you?" he asked finally. "Is it Ismay?"

"That fucking twat," Lowe snarled unexpectedly. He spat on the deck in disgust.

Charles was no stranger to swearing, yet even he was shocked at the vulgarity - and the vehemence behind it. He recoiled slightly.

"I can't believe he called that meeting to tell us he's ordering us back to England at the earliest opportunity. Trying to spirit us out of town..." his face twisted and he spat again.

Why he sounds just like a spoiled child, Charles thought, disgusted. What the hell is wrong with him?

Lowe went on. "What's his damn hurry, anyway? Why can't we stay in New York for a few days? He's got us running like cowards! I don't even know how he's sending these messages - they say he hasn't left his cabin at all."

Charles studiously avoided his eyes. Lowe didn't know that he was the one delivering the messages to the Marconi room, arranging the details for Ismay. Charles was trying to please his boss, yes - but he also wanted to return home as soon as possible for his own selfish reason: Sylvia. But he kept quiet about all of that; no need to aggravate the man further.

"You mean you don't want to go back?" Charles inquired, curious about the man's motives despite his offensive behavior.

"Yes- No... I don't know." Lowe exhaled in frustration. "I just... it's too soon."

And then it hit him like a blow: Corrine. Lowe didn't want to leave his girl.

Charles didn't know much about her plans once she arrived in America, but he did know that Irish women didn't book steerage tickets on passenger liners for a lark. She had likely decided to move there permanently to start a new life... and that would throw a definite wrench into her blossoming relationship with Lowe.

"How does Miss Donnelly feel about the news of your return?" he asked gently, getting straight to the point.

Lowe took a long drag on his smoke before answering. "She doesn't know yet," he admitted. "I- I didn't know how to tell her." His expression had turned despairing, and in it Charles could see the uncertainty, the hopelessness, that haunted him. Despite his prickly nature, this man did indeed have a heart, and was clearly suffering. Charles's own heart went out to him.

"You didn't mean to fall in love with her, did you?" he asked laconically.

That elicited a reaction. Lowe's jaw jutted. "Who says that I did?" he challenged.

"You just wanted to keep living your carefree life," Charles continued as if he hadn't spoken. "Meaningless physical encounters, no emotional attachments, a girl in every port." For some reason, Lowe flinched at that phrase.

"You don't know anything," Lowe muttered resentfully.

"I know more than you think I know," he said enigmatically. More than maybe even you yourself know, he finished in his own head. But he wasn't going to mention Florence Ismay. Sylvia had told him that secret in strictest confidence, and he would never betray his wife, for this man or for anyone else.

Lowe was looking at him suspiciously, so Charles changed tack.

"I was once like you, you know," he said philosophically.

Lowe stared at him, his expression incredulous, and Charles snorted arrogantly. "What - you think women weren't falling all over themselves to shag me, too? That's the life of a ship's officer, and believe me, I took full advantage - same as you."

Lowe looked down, eyes filled with shame, as both of them recalled that night on the Titanic after the Cherbourg stop.

After some time passed, Lowe's curiosity got the best of him, and he asked, "So what changed?"

Charles stared out to the sea, and a small smile traced his lips as he remembered. "Sylvia. She changed everything." Then he eyed Lowe. "You got another one of those fags?"

Lowe nodded silently and passed him one. He lit it from Lowe's outstretched smoke, puffed for a minute, and then continued.

"I was working the Australia run. She was a passenger returning to her home country - only eighteen at the time, and a feisty little thing." He smiled, and then winked at Lowe. "Those are the keepers, you know - the ones with spirit." Lowe's mouth curled up in a reluctant smile, and he nodded, likely thinking of his Corrine. "Anyway, she has a club foot, and had difficulty getting around the ship... so she charmed me into carrying her up and down the stairs, around the companionways... before I knew it I was carrying her into my cabin, and, well... I'm sure you know what happened then." He chuckled. "We had a good long time to get to know one another... and by the end of the voyage, we got married. She came back to England with me, and we had our honeymoon on the return passage - while I was still serving as an officer, mind you."

The irony of telling his story to this man - whom he had so recently berated for his dalliances with passengers, including Corrine - was not lost on Charles. With a wry grin, he acknowledged for the first time that he and young Mr. Lowe were not that different, after all.

He looked back over to find Lowe staring intently at him. "So you're saying I should marry Corrine and take her back home with me?" His tone was cynical and mocking... but Charles didn't miss how his eyes suddenly lit with a pathetic sort of hope. He shifted uncomfortably.

"Well, it worked for me... but she's have to be willing, of course," he amended quickly. He didn't want to put ideas into the younger man's head, give him cause to be more impetuous than he already was... all he wanted to do was provide a little bit of reassurance. "Maybe you can start by seeing if she'd return to England. You should still have a day or so to convince her," he said consolingly. Although, if Ismay's latest request comes through...

"Why are you telling me all this, anyway? I thought you hated me," Lowe mumbled sullenly. He wouldn't meet Charles's eyes.

Charles turned slowly toward him, making sure he had Lowe's full attention before continuing. "Hate is a very personal emotion, Mr. Lowe - and I don't know you well enough to hate you."

"Fine - let's say you disliked me from the start, then, shall we?" he said sarcastically.

"I'm wary of any hotshot junior officer swaggering onto the bridge with a chip on his shoulder," Charles shot back. "It wouldn't hurt for you to find some humility, you know."

Lowe blinked in surprise at the bald statement.

"I may not like some of the things you've done..." He trailed off as he thought of the weak, quivering man in the doctor's room belowdecks. Oh, if only you knew... "But I think your insecurity - for that's what it really is - has more to do with you than with me. You're a loner, Mr. Lowe - and there's nothing wrong with that... but opening up a little, trusting someone, won't kill you, either."

He turned and found Lowe staring at him, dumbfounded. Didn't expect to be called out, did he? Well, Lowe wasn't the only man who could be blunt.

He took a draw on his cigarette, allowing Lowe to regain his composure before he finally explained himself. "I'm only trying to help you, mate. We're going to go through hell with the Board of Trade once we get home. It doesn't make sense for you to be suffering your own personal hell, too."

"Damn me for a fool, I do love her," Lowe ground out abruptly, as if the admission were painful. Perhaps it was - love was often the root of a man's suffering, after all.

"I don't blame you," Charles said frankly. "Miss Donnelly is an incredible woman."

"How would you know? You barely know her," Lowe growled, his temper returning, and Charles noted that his voice was tinged with possessiveness.

Charles ignored his blustering and shrugged. "She'd have to be, to survive the way she did," he said matter of factly. He took another long pull on his cigarette as he tried to forget the feel of that icy water.

"She's been through a lot-"

"I know what she's been through!" Charles snapped, finally losing his patience.

Lowe looked down, chastened. When he finally spoke again, he was hesitant, his voice soft. "What was it like... in the water?"

Charles blew out a deep breath. "You don't need to know," he said shortly, looking away. He suppressed his automatic shudder. He wouldn't - couldn't - talk about it with anyone... except maybe Sylvia, when he returned home at last... and, he realized with surprise, with Corrine. Their similar experiences had bonded them in a peculiar way that no one else could understand... and that sense of camaraderie prompted his next statement.

"One more piece of advice, Mr. Lowe. Whatever you do, don't hurt her," he warned. "I suspect more than one person would see you flogged for it."

"Oh, and I suppose you'd be one of them?" Lowe asked defiantly, his insecurity on full display again.

He shrugged. "Perhaps. I've grown quite fond of her, despite our rather inauspicious beginning." He saw Lowe fume, but he didn't care. It was true - and if Charles hadn't met Sylvia all those years ago, he would've given Lowe a run for his money. He continued, "She deserves the best. And I'm not sure you're it, Mr. Lowe," he said honestly. "Depends on if you can pull yourself together."

Once again, he saw that Lowe was shocked into speechlessness. If he had known it would be this easy to humble the man, to shake the arrogance out of him, he would have told him the truth long ago.

"What you did, going back for the survivors... that was noble. I won't call you a hero-" he held up his hand as Lowe started to retort. "That's for starry-eyed passengers, and you don't need a bigger ego than you already have." Lowe's mouth quirked up in a half grin as he acknowledged the truth in his words. "But you're a damn good officer - one of the best I've ever seen. Try to be a good man, too."

Surprise and pleasure flickered over Lowe's face at the unexpected flattery, but was quickly replaced by a sober, thoughtful expression. He stared out at the sea as he mulled over the words for several minutes. Finally he spoke, and to Charles's surprise it was with the measured, mature voice of a man who had looked inside himself objectively and acknowledged some painful but honest truths. "Thank you, Mr. Lightoller... for listening to me. And for your advice." He nodded, as if to himself. "I'll try to take it."

"You can call me Lights, you know," Charles said. He flicked his spent cigarette over the rail and walked away, leaving the younger man staring after him in contemplative silence.

* * *

Ah, Charles. He tries to pour oil on the troubled water that is Harry's mind - and instead plants an idea in his head that may have inadvertently contributed to the breakup. What he doesn't realize is that he's trying to step into some very big shoes when it comes to giving Harry advice :( And yet the plan they had concocted might have worked, were it not for Ismay's rush to get the officers on board the Cedric and back to England, which put a giant wrench in everything - and made Harry lose his damn mind...


	36. Chapter 27: New York

Thank you, Fiction.2020 and Lowekey, for your constant support - it means so much to me! (And of course you, too, Rosie - what would I do without you?!). I do understand the mixed feelings that some readers may have about Harry, though, and I do not shy away from the criticism... but I hope that those I have lost through the interlude may be willing to return for the final part of the story. Yes, this is the last section - although it's a rather long one, and there are some epilogues, too. Hopefully in the end, even if parts of the story were difficult, the journey will have been worth it :)

So, let's get to it: will Corrine ever see Harry again? Will Harry ever stop being an ass? It's time to go back to the present (their present) and find out!

* * *

Part 4

Corrine was carried off the Carpathia on a stretcher, flanked by her best friends and followed by a somber-looking female nurse. Her sudden tumble to the deck was dramatic enough to have attracted the attention of Dr. McGee, who had wasted no time in relaying her story to the medical workers waiting to escort passengers to nearby hospitals. Although she kept repeating that she was fine, that she had only become temporarily dizzy and disoriented, no amount of entreaties and pleading seemed to matter. The hospital staff was immovable; she would spend at least one night under observation, and that was that. She sighed and laid down on the stretcher meekly, resigned to her fate. To be honest, she didn't much care what happened to her anyway, although she resented being carried like an invalid. Resolutely ignoring the rain peppering her face and the flashbulbs of the photographers' cameras as they passed through the rows of desperate family members still lining the dock, Corrine stared up at the starless sky.

She was loaded in an ambulance and driven to St. Vincent's hospital, where many of the survivors had been taken to recuperate. As the vehicle bumped over the wet cobblestone streets, she looked up at her friends, who were clinging to handholds in the back of the ambulance, determined to stay by her side despite their own precarious and unknown futures. She felt a rush of gratitude and love that they, at least, had not abandoned her; she honestly didn't know how she would have gotten through the last hour without them. Grasping their free hands in hers, she gave them a feeble smile. "Thank you," she said simply. Although her voice was faint, her words resonated with sincerity and deep appreciation.

"You'll be all right, Corr," Katie assured her. "The doctors'll get you sorted, and then you can find-" Kate glared at her sharply, and Katie trailed off into an awkward silence.

Kate didn't say anything, and Corrine noticed that she couldn't quite meet her eyes.

As the door to the ambulance slammed open and attendants rushed her stretcher out, she took a perfunctory glance around. Despite her detachment, she was suitably impressed by the imposing brick building into which she was carried. Corrine had never been to a hospital before, and if she hadn't felt so empty inside, she might have taken more of an interest in her surroundings; she had, after all, entertained the notion of becoming a nurse one day, before she had met-

No. She shut off the thought before it could fully form in her head.

In contrast to its austere and tranquil facade, the inside of the hospital was pandemonium. Past the physical barrier of the stretcher, people rushed by in all directions. Some were shouting names of missing passengers, while others were weeping; still others staggered in various stages of exhaustion or hysteria.

The attendants hauled her around like she weighed nothing - which, she supposed, was more true than usual given her undernourished state of late. They loaded her into an elevator, another first for Corrine, which creaked its way up several floors before the doors were opened again. Finally, she was carried into a large room filled with beds, many of which already contained the sick, injured, or catatonic survivors of the disaster. The room was blindingly white - white beds, white walls, white everywhere. The color of cleanliness, of sterility. And of heaven, too, she supposed, although it certainly didn't feel like it. It was too bright for her aching eyes; they burned with the pain of unshed tears, and she half-closed her eyelids to protect her pupils from the assault.

The head nurse, who appeared as she was being lifted from the stretcher, immediately tried to put her under sedation. Corrine adamantly refused; she didn't want to be any more numb than she already was. On this, she received the support of her friends, who stood by as she was eased onto the bed, and the nurse eventually nodded, relenting. "I suppose if you can argue that fiercely, you're well enough to make the decision for yourself," she said grudgingly. "Although it would help," she added, looking her over. "You look like you've had a frightful time of it." Corrine grunted noncommittally, and the nurse moved on, tutting to herself.

She waited, watching without much interest as more survivors were brought in. Many of the women were still weeping; it seemed that there was a never-ending supply of tears to accompany this disaster. A reporter skidded to a stop at the door and looked abashed when he found only a room full of women. "I'm looking for the wireless operator," he barked at the head nurse. She pointed down the hall and he raced off, notebook flapping.

The staff were doing their best to attend to the patients while policing the nosy bystanders hovering in the hallway, but it was a losing battle. They finally shut the doors with a bang, sequestering the patients from the crowds milling about outside, and a welcome silence fell over the room. One man, however, was allowed to move among the survivors unimpeded. He carried a pad and pencil in his hand, and slowly worked his way from one bed to another, writing down information. Finally, he came to her side.

"Miss," he said gently, "I need your name, to add to the list of survivors."

She told him. Katie's and Kate's eyebrows rose simultaneously in surprise. But they said nothing.

After the man left, Corrine asked Kate to reach into her coat hanging on the back of the bed and dig out her battered money purse; she couldn't bear to do it herself, knowing what was in the pocket. Kate handed it to her silently, and Corrine opened it, pulled out some coins, and pressed them into Kate's hand.

"Please send a telegram to my father and my uncle, and let them know that I'm alive," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

She lay back on the pillow and closed her eyes. The girls left the room without another word, wondering if her last assertion was really true.

* * *

Corrine slept as long as she could, but the sun streaming through the windows and the unfamiliar murmur of activity around her eventually made her reluctantly open her eyes late the next morning. For a long moment, she forgot where she was, until she spotted Katie sitting beside her bed in an unconscious imitation of the position Harry had once held on the Carpathia. Then it all came back in a sickening rush. Yesterday morning - was it so long ago already? - Harry had ended things with her, a memory that was still too raw to process. And although she was now in America at last, instead of spending time with Harry or searching for a job and a place to live, she was trapped in a hospital bed with a broken heart and an unknown future. She sighed and closed her eyes again, willing sleep to overtake her once again, so that she could escape the reality to which she had awoken.

But Katie wasn't having it. She nudged her leg until Corrine reluctantly peeked at her through one half-closed eye. "Morning, love," Katie said, looking closely at her. "And how do we feel today?"

Corrine shrugged apathetically.

"You look a little more rested than you did yesterday," she said encouragingly, giving her a cheerful smile. Corrine heaved an indifferent sigh. She couldn't even muster the strength to respond politely.

"You need to eat something, you know," Katie urged. "You look like death warmed over." Corrine didn't smile at the joke, and Katie's smile quickly slid from her face as she realized that her choice of phrase unfortunately hit too close to the truth. "I'm sorry," she said, patting her hand. "That was a terrible thing to say. I know you haven't been well... I shouldn't tease."

Poor Katie. Her heart was in the right place, and she was trying to keep Corrine's spirits up. It wasn't her fault Corrine was a hopeless cause. Even though she wanted nothing more than to remain silent for the rest of her life, she couldn't bear to see the hangdog expression on her friend's face. "Katie, you don't have to be so careful around me. I won't break," she murmured at last, hoping her voice sounded reassuring. Katie nodded warily, evidently not convinced.

There was an awkward pause for a few moments until Katie tried a new tack. "Can I get you anything?" she tentatively ventured. "Other than Harry, of course." Corrine immediately flinched, and Kate muttered, "Oh, I just keep putting my foot in it, don't I."

Corrine dismissed her faux pas with a wave; she couldn't expect Katie keep tiptoeing around the elephant in the room. Besides, there was one thing she wanted, and wanted badly. "I would like to see a newspaper, please." Other than gratitude at her friend's presence, it was the only thing on her mind right now.

Katie's hands fumbled awkwardly in her lap. "Er... all right, Corrine," she agreed at last. "Although... well, they're full of news about the disaster right now - "

"I'm counting on it," Corrine said grimly. Katie gave her an uneasy look but said nothing.

A moment later a kindly-looking young nurse in a starched white cap who had been rounding the room appeared at Corrine's bedside. Katie took that as her cue to leave. "Kate and I will be back later," she said consolingly. "Mind you get some rest, now."

The nurse took her temperature, asked some general questions about her health, and then scribbled something down on a clipboard. "You seem to be recovering well - physically at least." She hesitated. "I hope you don't mind my bluntness, but the note in your chart says that you were catatonic when you were brought in last night."

Corrine bristled at the description. She had been entirely rational and clear-headed when she arrived at the hospital, albeit detached; evidently someone had felt the need to exaggerate her condition. But then the nurse went on, "Did you... did you lose someone in the sinking?"

How to answer that question? Corrine thought for a long moment. "Yes," she whispered at last. It was easier to agree to a half-truth than to tell her story to a stranger.

"I'm so sorry for your loss, then, miss," she said, her voice filled with compassion. "Can I get you an opiate? It may help ease the pain."

"No!" Corrine bit out, before remembering her manners. "Thank you, but I would prefer to remain lucid."

The nurse blinked at her choice of words and then nodded, chastened. "You should try to get up and moving soon, if you think your nerves can handle it," she said as she made to leave for the next patient. "There's no better restorative than exercise." After she left, Corrine reflected that she sounded just like Dr. McGee.

As the morning progressed, the room became a hive of activity, most of it unwelcome. Despite the overburdened staff's best efforts, reporters scurried around everywhere, trying to get an exclusive from a previously overlooked passenger in order to scoop their rivals. Corrine closed her eyes resolutely, pretending to sleep, and they passed by her bed. She would not consent to be interviewed, did not even want to give a quote. Let someone else sensationalize this disaster; she refused to participate.

Fortunately, not all of the visitors were opportunists. There were a few reunions as well, and they created several happy moments among the patients in the ward. The entire room would brighten considerably when family members blew in, hugging, crying, and celebrating to see their loved ones. A beautiful English girl a few beds down from hers was one such lucky patient; she had been swept up in an embrace by a handsome man who had hurried into the room and given a joyous cry as soon as he laid eyes on her. From the excited babble coming from the beds around her, she found out that the man was this woman's fiance. He had come over from England several years before and finally saved enough money to send his beloved a third-class ticket to sail on Titanic. She had survived in one of the last boats to leave the ship, likely the same collapsible she had leapt from. Just when her man thought all hope had been lost, he received the happy news that she lived, and had rushed to the hospital immediately to see her. Corrine's heart squeezed painfully in her chest as she listened to their emotional declarations of relief and love.

She sighed and lay back down on the bed. Oh, wouldn't it be grand if Harry suddenly appeared like that! Indulging in an uncharacteristic fit of romanticism, she allowed her imagination to create her own happily ever after scenario for a moment. She pictured how his expression would swiftly change from tenderness to concern at seeing her lying so fragile and vulnerable in the bed, how he would cradle her in his arms and tell her that he was sorry, that he missed her, that everything he said on the Carpathia had been a big mistake, and that he loved her so much...

She scrubbed her hand across her face in frustration. Was she ever going to stop living in a dream world? Harry wasn't coming for her. He had probably already forgotten all about her. She resolutely blocked out her childish fantasies and closed her eyes again.

* * *

Her friends returned after lunch, which Corrine had not touched. She could hear them arguing as they came down the hall toward her room.

"But I bought all of them, except for the New York Herald-"

"Don't say that name!"

"-for that very reason," Katie finished, a bit smugly. "She insisted, Kate; I couldn't tell her no."

"You could have saved my money, girls, and only bought the New York Times," she said as they approached her bed meekly. They gaped at her, realizing that she had overheard their conversation. "The rest are rubbish anyway," Corrine continued. "The Times is the only accurate one of the lot, I've heard." She snatched the pile from Kate's hand in the first sign of since life she had shown since disembarking and scanned the front pages. "I heard there's to be an inquiry," she said slowly. "Do any of these mention it?"

Kate tried to pull the papers from her hand. "Corrine, you really need to recover first-"

Corrine tugged back, her eyes flashing. "Let me see," she gritted out. She skipped the survivor accounts; there would be time to read those in depth later. Her eyes darted back and forth as she searched in vain for the one name she was desperate to see. After a few seconds, she threw the paper down in disgust. "Right, the next one, please," she said, holding out her hand. Katie sighed and handed it over.

After half an hour, Corrine's fingers were covered in ink, and she had turned up nothing about Harry. She squeezed her eyes shut, looking pained. When she opened them again, she caught her friends staring at one another in helpless dismay.

With an effort, she pushed aside her frustration and disappointment; she didn't want to burden them with her drama when they were likely facing their own challenges. It was then that she realized she knew very little of her friends' activity since they had arrived, and after apologizing for her insensitivity and oversight, she asked them about it now. With obvious relief at the change of subject, Kate explained that they were staying in a nearby shelter provided by the Women's Relief Organization. This was an association of New York society women that had sprung up in the wake of the disaster to provide steerage passengers with food, clothing, and temporary housing. The women had realized that most third-class passengers were destitute, having lost everything they owned in the sinking, and would also likely not have friends or family to meet them at the pier when the Carpathia docked. So they organized relief stations, distributed emergency funds, and delivered patients to hospitals or housing. Corrine thought the gesture quite generous, and was grateful that her friends were being cared for so well.

The rest of the visit passed pleasantly enough, as her friends described their first impressions of the colossus that was New York City. Soon, however, they were shooed away by the same cheerful nurse from earlier, who told the girls that visiting hours were over because the patients needed their rest. After promising to return the next morning to check on her, the girls left, and Corrine was alone once again.

* * *

She tried to rest, but she could only sit idle for so long. Trying to distract herself, she picked up the discarded papers. The entire front page of the Times was taken up by a first-person article from the Marconi operator that everyone was talking about, Harold Bride. An unfortunate first name, she mused sardonically, but a fascinating, thrilling tale of bravery and duty nonetheless. Particularly gripping were the details of his escape from the same icy waters that Corrine herself had survived. She found herself admiring the young man, who had played a pivotal role in their ultimate rescue by the Carpathia.

Almost all the rest of the copy was taken up by reporting on and speculation about the first-class passengers, like the Astors, Wideners, Thayers, and the Duff Gordons. Much was also being made of the examples of manhood that night: Mr. Butt, the American president's aide, holding back foreign men from the boats at gunpoint; Mr. Guggenheim, facing his death in an evening jacket and stating that he would 'go down like a gentleman'; Mr. Astor, waving a laconic good-bye to his young wife while casually smoking a cigarette. The willingness of men to sacrifice their own lives for the fairer sex, some editorials stated, was proof of their gender superiority; feminists who were fighting for equality were labeled as ungrateful in light of such noble deeds.

Corrine was neither a proponent of male chivalry nor a suffragist per se, so she had no opinion on the debate over male survival. But the fact that so many third class children had died - likely because the captain and most of the crew had forgotten about the steerage passengers - grieved her deeply. The numbers were shocking: the percentage of first-class men that survived - 32% - was approximately the same as the percentage of third-class children that survived - 34%.

She had to put considerable effort into searching out this data, though, as the papers were far more interested in reporting the fate of the richest passengers than the fate of Titanic's poorest. She realized with no small amount of bitterness that in that way, Americans were no different than the British after all - instead of royalty, money served as their sovereign here.

Finally she was able to obtain a list of third-class victims, and she scanned it until she found the column for the third class children who had been lost. She forced herself to read their names: Abbott, Rossmore, aged 16; Abbott, Eugene, aged 14; Andersson, Sigrid, aged 11; Andersson, Ingeborg, aged 9; Andersson, Ebba Iris, aged 6; Andersson, Sigvard Harald, aged 4; Andersson, Ellis Anna, aged 2...

Two years old?! And all from the same family...

She shoved the paper aside quickly, her stomach roiling. Oh, why hadn't she done more to save these people? she thought desolately. She had been so consumed with Harry's fate, his safety...

No. She would not think that name.

The papers were not an effective diversion; if anything, they were making her torment worse. With a sigh, she decided to heed the nurse's advice from earlier and take a walk around the ward.

She was still in her dress, so she sat on the edge of the bed, dragged her boots out from underneath it, and shoved her feet into them. Wrestling her hair into some semblance of order, she was soon ready.

Walking wasn't nearly as difficult as she thought it might be. She made it to the door without staggering once and stepped out into the hallway. The corridors were mostly deserted; almost all the reporters had left at last, and the merely curious had given up trying to get a glimpse of the bedraggled survivors. She walked slowly past the nurses' station, turned toward the elevator - and stopped dead in her tracks. Exiting the elevator together were Mr. Ismay and Charles Lightoller, engaged in a rather heated conversation with one another.

The jolt of surprise that shot through her nearly knocked her off her feet. Fortunately, she was able to compose herself just as the men spotted her. Ismay quickly looked away, avoiding her eyes, but Charles hailed her with a hearty grin. Breaking away from Ismay, who was awkwardly studying his shoes, he strode over to her.

"It's so good to see you up and moving again, Corrine!" he exclaimed. His pleased expression quickly changed to concern. "But what brings you here, lass?" he inquired, gesturing to the hallway they stood in.

Corrine thought quickly. "I'm... well, that is... I'm visiting a friend who's in hospital," she wobbled out. She didn't want to tell him she'd been admitted; there was no need to get into the details about how and why she had collapsed on the Carpathia. Needing to change the subject, she asked, "Are you also here to see someone, Charles?"

He glanced behind him before saying in a low voice, "Mr. Ismay and I are visiting the wireless man, Bride. He's going to testify tomorrow."

She nodded slowly. She had a hunch they were going to ask him about the ice warnings. According to the papers, the Titanic had received - and ignored - several of these messages in the days before the sinking. She wondered if Ismay and the officers, including Harry, had known.

Despite her best efforts to appear normal, his sharp eyes must have caught the wooden expression on her face, the listlessness in her gaze. "Are you well, Corrine?" he asked, looking more closely at her. "Have you found a place to stay? You look like you could use some rest." He took a step toward her, his expression worried.

"Er... yes, actually, the-" she wracked her brain for the name, "-Women's Relief Organization is taking very good care of all the steerage passengers. They've put us up in a lovely hotel," she lied.

"I hope you won't have to stay there for long," he said, smiling enigmatically, as if he knew a secret she didn't.

That intrigued her, but she had enough difficulty just trying to keep her face from betraying her emotions without trying to puzzle out his meaning just then. She nodded again, not sure how she was supposed to respond.

"Well, if you need anything - anything at all - please feel free to come and find me. I'm staying at the Waldorf-Astoria, in the company of your friend, Mr. Lowe." He gave her a conspiratorial little wink.

She sucked in a breath. He didn't know, then. She nodded faintly. "Right. That's... that's very kind of you, Charles." Her tongue seemed to be made of lead; she could barely force any words from her frozen lips.

His brow furrowed. "Are you sure you're well, Corrine?"

She schooled her face into a pleasantly neutral expression. She couldn't let him see... couldn't tell him the truth. "Yes, of course... I think I'm just tired, and still in shock, is all." She gave him a tremulous smile.

He nodded slowly, his expression skeptical. But as he contemplated her, his face suddenly cleared, as if he had remembered something. Eyes crinkling with affection, he said, "I think you'll be feeling like yourself again very soon, Corrine. And I expect I'll be seeing you around." He gave her another mysterious smile, touched the brim of his hat in farewell, and then rejoined Ismay. The two soon moved off down the hall.

After that, she no longer felt like walking, or even standing anymore. On shaky legs, she made her way back to her bed and lay down with her boots still on.

* * *

She ignored dinner as well, and as the room began to settle down for the night, she stared up at the darkening ceiling while thoughts of Harry crept unbidden to her mind.

He hadn't told Charles that he had ended their relationship. He probably hadn't even thought it important enough to mention to anyone. After all, they had only just met a few short days ago; what was she to him, in the grand scheme of things? A brief love affair, probably one of many that he had had in his lifetime.

Was it truly love, though, on his part? Love, like marriage, was supposed to last forever; her father's eternal adoration of her long-dead mother was proof of that. One-sided love, on the other hand... that kind never stood a chance. Was that what this was, then: an unrequited love that was destined to end? Her thoughts whirled around and around in her head, intermingling with the words that had broken her heart:

'It's over... it's over...'

The reminder echoed repeatedly, like a litany, until she finally escaped to oblivion.

* * *

A bit of Titanic trivia: the 'beautiful English girl' that had the happy reunion in the ward was named Sarah Roth :)


	37. Chapter 28: Decisions

So glad to see that many of my readers are still with me (it's great to hear from TheBlackCrownedQueen again)!

In this chapter, although Corrine's heartache continues, she finally decides to take matters into her own hands...

* * *

Corrine was chasing Harry through the clouds, bounding in giant leaps as she sought to overtake him. She could hear his laugh trailing out behind him as he flew just in front of her, effortlessly avoiding her grasp. He was tantalizingly close, just out of her reach... if she could only make her leaden body move faster, she could catch him at last. But she felt as if she were running in slow motion through molasses, and try as she might, she couldn't quite touch him.

Just as she was about to give up, he finally turned around to face her - and her blood turned to ice in her veins. His eyes were bright red, lit by flames that burned from within. He sneered, and she could see the outline of sharp, elongated canines in his mouth as he drew closer.

'It's over, Corrine..." he taunted her, and then laughed maniacally as his mouth opened wider to swallow her whole...

She sat bolt upright in bed, gasping for air.

The room around her was still quiet. A gray dawn crept through the windows of the hospital, the light barely touching the shiny tile floor. Slowly, she let her gaze travel up and down the rows of beds and their occupants, reassuring herself of their solidity, their permanence. Even the antiseptic smell in the air was a godsend. It meant that she was in the world of reality, and not in that nightmare landscape she had just fled.

Shuddering uncontrollably, she pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. She couldn't get the image of Harry's hate-filled eyes out of her mind. She wondered briefly if her dream meant that she was afraid of him, but quickly dismissed the idea as ridiculous. No, it was her grief that threatened to devour her, not Harry. And it was his cruel dismissal of her, that phrase echoing over and over in her head, that haunted her waking and sleeping mind.

Taking deep breaths, she was gradually able to get her trembling body under control, although the effort left her feeling hollow and weak. She lay back down again, but forced her eyes to stay open - she didn't want to risk falling back to sleep and possibly reliving that horror. As the room slowly came to life around her, she stared at the ceiling and indulged in yet another childish fantasy: a wish for a magic potion that would take away her pain and make her forget everything.

* * *

Her gloomy reverie was interrupted right after morning rounds by a middle-aged woman with a warm smile who looked Corrine over with a practiced eye. "Oh, you're tiny!" she exclaimed by way of greeting. "Hold on - I'll be right back." Mildly curious despite herself, Corrine waited, wondering what she was about.

The woman returned after a few minutes, carrying a small suitcase. "I'm from the Red Cross. We're distributing necessities to all the steerage survivors, and I wanted to make sure I chose the right sizes for you," she explained. She opened the suitcase, showing Corrine two brand new dresses, a pair of shoes, a hat, and several toiletry items. She then handed her a small envelope. "There's also a hundred dollars, to help you get settled."

"Thank you," said Corrine, surprised and touched. "That's so very generous, but I don't-"

The woman waved off her protests. "The citizens of New York grieve with all of you," she said gently, "and this is the least they can do."

Kate and Katie showed up shortly after the woman left. Katie carried a greasy paper bag in her hand. "Try this," she said, shoving the bag at Corrine. "It's called a doughnut." When Corrine made no move to open it, Katie explained, "It's a sweet, fried ring. Tastes like heaven." She made a rapturous face. Corrine shook her head silently and handed it back, much to Katie's chagrin. She still didn't think she could handle any solid food, no matter how delicious it smelled.

The girls also brought her a new stack of papers. Flipping pages rapidly, Corrine finally found what she was looking for - a summary of the first day of testimony from the hearings into the loss of the Titanic, chaired by Senator Smith from Michigan. Her finger scanned the page as she read quickly. Her expression soured when she came to Ismay's name, and then quirked up in a sardonic smile when she read through Lightoller's testimony. "Clever, Charles," she murmured. "I know what you're about. You may outsmart them yet."

But still, not even a mention of Harry's name- wait a minute. An article in the Sun referred to 'Fifth Officer Lowe'; that was him! With a little cry of excitement, she read the rest of the paragraph, which was about his rescue of the people in the water. There was even a mention of her collapsible, although it was referred to as a 'raft'. But the article got so many details of that night wrong... and didn't give Harry nearly enough credit for what he had done. Her mouth twisted in disappointment. "Surely he deserves more praise than that," she muttered under her breath. "They should-"

"Corr, how long are you going to torture yourself?" Katie interrupted, exasperation creeping into her voice.

Corrine looked up in surprise. She had not expected such vehemence from Katie of all people, who had always been supportive of her relationship with Harry.

"I'm sorry for being so harsh," Katie hastily amended. "I just hate to see you suffer like this."

Corrine was about to respond until Kate interposed, speaking for the first time that morning. "He told you it was over, Corrine. You have to respect his decision." Her voice was soothing but firm. "You have to let him go. You'll only be hurt if you continue to... pine away for him." She laid a gentle hand on Corrine's.

"That's not what I was saying-" Katie retorted angrily, but Corrine held up her free hand, begging for peace.

As she contemplated her friends' words, she felt indignation rise in her chest. She wasn't pining! She just wanted to know that Harry was well, and what he was saying, and where he was... Right. She sighed. She was acting like a lovesick fool, and she knew it. Kate was giving it to her straight, although the truth hurt to hear.

She closed her eyes, trying to block out her reality, the hospital, the people around her. Right then, she wanted nothing more than to be alone. She loved her well-meaning friends, but they couldn't possibly understand what she had been through the past few days, and how the loss of Harry, the glue that had held her together during all of it, had affected her. She opened her eyes again and, seeing their anxious expressions, she smiled at them reassuringly, willing her face to look agreeable. "You're right, of course," she asserted. "And I'll soon be back to my old self, I promise you. I just need some time alone to think about everything."

They turned away from those burning eyes in that gaunt face and slowly crept away.

* * *

Now that they had gone, Corrine had time to reflect on what her friends had said. This was the first time they had voiced their opinions out loud, but she was guessing they had probably discussed it amongst themselves before bringing it up to her. And although they had held back for the past few days, allowing her sufficient time to recover physically, they must have decided that now it was time for some brutal honesty.

And it was time for her to face the truth as well. She had to rip the bandage off the wound once and for all, she thought grimly. She had to stop avoiding reality and force herself to think about Harry.

The pain of losing him was still a raw and bleeding wound, but she picked at it resolutely, needed to understand how things had gone so wrong between them. She started with the why. Something had happened between the time she had tried to seduce him and their final explosive argument, she knew. But what was it? What had brought on that iciness, the distance between them?

She would likely never know; his final words didn't leave any definitive clues. He had mastered the art of being emotionally opaque years ago; he had even made a living out of it, after all. And although she loved him through and through, he was still an enigma to her in many ways.

What went wrong between them was easier to explain, although harder to accept. He had given her an ultimatum about their future that was crystal clear. She remembered the finality in his tone as he said it was over, his flat refusal that had brooked no argument, his firm rejection of her love. No one said such uncompromising words, and said them so vehemently, unless they absolutely meant them.

It was that memory to which her mind kept returning over and over again. Combined with her musings on love from the night before, it painted a very bleak picture indeed. There was only one conclusion to make, and she made it reluctantly, because it hurt so very much: that he had never loved her in the first place. She had been projecting her own love onto him, seeing only what she wanted to see, convinced that because her feelings were so strong, his had to be as well.

Her emotions seesawed back and forth from denial to certainty. She tried to be objective, to look at it from every angle, but she kept coming up with the same answer: that if he felt about her the way she did about him, he never would have ended things, never would have given up on them.

But the fact remained that he had walked away from a future with her. And the abandonment and sense of loss he left in his wake were all too familiar.

It was her father all over again.

She bit down on her bottom lip that so hard that she drew blood. No. She would not cry. What good would crying do, anyway? It wouldn't bring Harry back; it couldn't change the past. It wouldn't change his mind.

Still, the traitorous tears threatened at the corners of her eyes, but she refused to give in, fighting the bitter flood with more than a little resentment. She hadn't cried since the night of the sinking; she wasn't going to start now. Crying, like anger, would only make her feel weak. And indeed, the more she held back her emotions, the stronger she felt. After further reflection, she began to feel cross with herself for her ridiculously melodramatic thoughts. She had to stop wallowing in self-pity. So many people had lost so much more than she had. Her friends had survived; Harry - although he no longer wanted her - was alive as well. She had to be grateful for that, at least.

She remembered that terrible night in the water, when she was floundering right next to the swamped boat, on the knife edge between life and death. Now, like then, she found herself at a crossroads. Was she going to live, or was she going to waste away in this hospital bed, mourning her loss, when so many others had lost so much more?

Once again, the choice was clear. Harry had spurned her, put her aside, despite all the promises, despite the feelings she thought he had for her. She had loved him with everything she had... and it wasn't enough. Kate was right. It was time to gather the remnants of her dignity and let him go.

* * *

Corrine forced herself to get out of bed before lunch and walk around the ward. Physically, she felt much better than she had on the Carpathia. Her strength had mostly returned - if not her energy - and her shoulder was nearly healed as well. There was no evidence of permanent damage from frostbite, either. Altogether, she knew she was quite fortunate to have escaped with so little outward evidence of her ordeal.

She managed to sip some tea for lunch, which was more than what she usually consumed. But she still passed on the solid food; the idea of chewing and swallowing made her feel nauseous for some reason. After she was finished, she called for a nurse and asked for a message to be sent to the shelter where the girls were staying. Then she waited.

After about an hour, Katie and Kate appeared once again at her bedside, faces wary.

Corrine took a deep breath. "You were right," she began. "I've been a fool. But that's over. I can't - no, I won't - mope around, waiting for..." She swallowed. "He's not coming back for me," she finished brokenly. Kate gave her a pitying look. Katie looked like she was about to cry.

Corrine pulled herself together with an effort. "We have to look to the future now," she said, her voice filled with conviction. "What's next for us? Katie, how soon can we leave this city and get to Washington?"

Katie, looking startled but pleased, answered, "I heard from my cousin this morning. She said they'll let me start work on Monday, so the sooner we leave, the better. We can even go tonight, if you're ready."

Tonight. There was no longer any point to staying in New York. Her original plan had always been to go with Katie and Kate to Washington and find work there. The only reason she had changed her plans was to be closer to Harry. New York held nothing for her now.

She nodded slowly. "Yes, I think that would be a grand idea, actually. I am tired of being in bed; it seems it's all I've done for the past week is lie around." It was a flippant remark, given all that had happened to her, but she wanted to convey a sense of confidence and ease that she didn't really feel. "Katie, if you would be so kind as to make the arrangements...?" Katie nodded her assent and rushed away, seemingly glad to have a purpose.

She was back in a matter of minutes, breathless from her rapid excursion and the news she bore. "The nurse said that if we leave soon, we should be able to catch the last train out of town to Washington."

"Right, then," said Corrine. She forced her unwilling body to move, to pull off the covers and swing her legs over the side of the bed. "As soon as I change into my new clothes, I'll be ready." She looked down at the pretty blue dress she had worn the night of the hooley. It was time to put away that reminder of her time with Harry, too.

It was then that she noticed Kate's expression. Always shy, her friend looked unusually reserved - and apprehensive.

Corrine's eyebrows rose in silent question. Kate glanced quickly at Katie, a gesture that was not lost on Corrine, before she came and sat on the edge of the bed. Kate took her hand and hesitated a moment before she spoke.

"I'm not going with you," she said quietly.

Corrine stared at her, not quite comprehending.

"Daniel has asked me to stay. He found a job at a hotel, and..." Here, Kate blushed. "Well, he thinks we can make a go of it, he and I." She looked Corrine in the eyes, her expression somber but resolute. "I'm going to settle here, in New York... with him."

It took a moment for her words to sink in. Of all the reactions to her announcement, she could never have anticipated this. Corrine had taken for granted that she and her friends would remain together after the disaster, taking care of one another and rebuilding their lives.

And yet... somehow, in the midst of her own drama, she had missed how happy Kate had become. The realization made her feel terrible. She had been so focused on herself that she had missed the joy of new love blossoming right in front of her.

"Oh, Kate," she whispered. "That... that's wonderful." And she meant it with all her heart.

With a relieved cry, Kate threw herself into Corrine's arms.

Katie gently broke up their private moment. "I have to run back to the shelter to grab my things, and then we can be off." She looked at Kate. "You'll stay here with her?" Kate nodded.

After Katie left, Kate told Corrine all about her relationship with Daniel: how she had hidden him with her shawl the night of the sinking so that he could escape in a boat, how Harry had thrown him into the other boat once he discovered him, and how Kate and Daniel had bonded that night as they floated uncertainly in the cold sea. Corrine flinched slightly at the mention of Harry's name, but Kate passed over that part so matter-of-factly that Corrine didn't have time to dwell on it. Their connection had only intensified once they were safe on the Carpathia, Kate explained - and that's when they knew they didn't want to be separated.

"Daniel says he's never met anyone like me," Kate said softly, her eyes shining.

Corrine smiled. "That's because there isn't anyone else like you," she said, hugging her tightly.

Despite her own bittersweet feelings, the glow on Kate's face told Corrine that this was the right decision; her friend deserved happiness - they all did - and if Danny made her happy and treated her well, then Kate should grab onto that feeling with both hands and build a life with him.

All too soon, Katie had returned, and it was time for the final goodbyes. Katie of course teared up as she hugged Kate, sobbing her blessing in a broken voice. But when it was Corrine's turn, she found that despite the lump in her throat, her own voice was steady. Taking her friend's hand for the final time, she said tenderly, "The only good thing that came out of this disaster is that you have finally found love, Kate, and for that, I couldn't be more thrilled."

Kate looked at her with a mixture of love and pity. "Godspeed, Corrine," she said softly. "I hope you find peace someday, too." Tears welled in her grey eyes.

Corrine embraced her friend one more time. "I'll try, Kate. And I'll miss you so much." It took everything in her not to break down and cry... but she wasn't going to let on how painful it was to say goodbye to her beloved friend. She knew Kate wouldn't want her to be sad. And she shouldn't be, anyway - Kate was embarking on a wonderful new adventure, and even if Corrine wouldn't be there beside her, she sincerely wished her all the best.

Once the difficult farewells had been said, Corrine waved over the nurse. "Can you please tell the doctor that I'm ready to leave. I have places to be," she said firmly.

It was time to put New York - and Harry - behind her.

* * *

On her way out of the ward, she stopped at the nurse's desk to sign her release papers. The matron gave a perfunctory glance at her name, then did a double-take. "Miss, wait - I believe we have a message here for you...?" She dug into a stack of papers atop the desk and produced a telegram, which she handed over to Corrine.

She unfolded it and read: Alanna - Thank God you are saved. All my love Da.

She blinked, not quite comprehending what she was seeing. Her father hadn't called her his 'dear child' in years - since before her mother died. She turned to the nurse and asked, "Are you sure this is for me?"

"Well, the first name - Corrine - is similar to yours..." She looked down and checked the records again, then looked up, confused. "But we have a different last name... what did you say yours was again?"

"Never mind - it's fine," Corrine said hastily, and after thanking her, she quickly walked back to Katie. She read the telegram once again, slowly, allowing herself a small smile. "Well, what do you know," she whispered. Wordlessly, she handed it to Katie.

Katie read it and grinned. "I knew he'd come to his senses someday," she said, a look of satisfaction crossing her face. "Now, if only..." She trailed off as she saw Corrine's expression.

"No, Katie," she said warningly. "Don't say it - don't even suggest it. One miracle is all I dare ask for."

* * *

Katie, showing a surprising amount of fortitude, hailed a cab for them, and they bumped their way to Penn Station. After arriving in the cavernous concourse, they spent a few anxious minutes scanning the timetables. Finally, they found the listing for the train the nurse had recommended: the Congressional Limited, which was scheduled to leave for Washington in ten minutes. The girls pushed their way through the crowds to the booking office to purchase their tickets. To their surprise, once Katie informed the agent with imperious pride that they were Titanic survivors, they found that their fare had been waived. The Pennsylvania Railroad was offering surviving steerage passengers transportation to their original destinations free of charge - a generous gesture from a company that had lost their own director and second vice-president, John Thayer, in the disaster. Once they boarded, Katie found them a nearly-empty coach, and they took their seats just as the train whistled its departure.

As the engine pulled out of the station, Corrine took one last look around. She felt a small pang of regret that she hadn't even gotten to see the city that might have been her new home. She had arrived at night; she was leaving at night. She hadn't even caught a glimpse of the Statue of Liberty, that beacon of freedom. Freedom. Her mouth twisted up in a sardonic smile that Katie fortunately missed. I have all the freedom in the world now, she thought.

Somehow, the thought was not as comforting as it would have been a mere two weeks ago.

Once more, she pushed aside thoughts of what might have been. I'm a survivor, she told herself grimly. Even if I never feel alive again, I have to go on living anyway.

With that final thought, she closed her eyes and let the soothing rock of the train lull her into unconsciousness.

* * *

Song inspirations: Lose You To Love Me - Selena Gomez; The Next Right Thing - Frozen 2 Soundtrack


	38. Chapter 29: Washington

Apologies for the late post, readers... I have been feeling rather blue lately. Hopefully this post will cheer me up! GRandElusYon: I know, right?! It IS convenient indeed that Katie's cousin is located in Washington, of all places ;) And just when Corrine thinks she has finally pulled herself together and moved on despite losing Harry, too. Ah, you know what they say about the best-laid plans. As you probably guessed, there's more emotion to come - the city's not that big, after all ;) I hope you all enjoy this one!

* * *

Corrine poked listlessly at her uneaten breakfast and sighed. "I need to find a job, Katie."

The two of them were sitting outside at a small cafe after Mass that Sunday. Katie had ordered a large breakfast and wolfed it down already, and was now preoccupied with plucking bits from Corrine's as well. But she paused her scavenging to cluck sympathetically at her friend.

"It's only been a day, love. Give yourself some time," she said gently.

They had moved into a boarding house located very near the senator's mansion where Katie's cousin worked. Katie would be joining the staff tomorrow, as a maid in training. But today, at least, they were free to familiarize themselves with their new city.

And yet Corrine had felt no motivation to find her way around, or even wake up that morning. It had been Katie, pouncing on her bed with excitement at their new adventure, that had stirred her out of her lethargy at last. After washing her face and going to Mass, she had felt marginally better, enough to attempt a tentative bite to eat. That hadn't worked out well, though; the sight and smell of food had made her nauseous, as it had since her fight - her breakup, she reminded herself sternly - with Harry. Still, even if she couldn't eat, moving around the city, with its bustling populace, had reminded her that everywhere people were carrying on with the business of life. And she should somehow find a way to do the same.

"I've felt sorry for myself long enough, Katie. It's time to move on - time to start living again." Her words, although said unconvincingly, without any enthusiasm, were nonetheless resolute. "Besides, the money won't last forever." Although that was strictly true, she had more than enough for now, between her own money purse and the money the Red Cross and the American government had distributed to steerage passengers. She had no intention of ever touching a penny of Harry's money, of course.

But it wasn't the money that was driving her to contemplate her next step; it was needing a sense of purpose. Emotionally, she had drifted aimlessly in the past few days, her usual decisiveness gone and her spirit sapped. But she was unaccustomed to doing nothing. Since the time she was little, she had either been caring for someone - her mother, and then her father - or working, and her idleness the past few days was making her chafe. Having a lack of a clear goal was only making her situation worse. There was another reason for wanting to stay busy as well, of course. If she were able to find a job... maybe she would be able to take her mind off the disaster - and Harry.

She noticed a newsboy setting up on the corner, about to hawk the latest edition of the Washington Post. Her eyes narrowed. She was sure there would be want ads in the paper; perhaps she would buy one when they were leaving and peruse it after they had returned to the room.

"Sunday paper!" shouted the newsboy, waving the top one in the stack.

"Oh, do be quiet, lad," grumbled Katie. "I'm trying to enjoy my breakfast here."

Corrine snorted - the most humor Katie had seen her show in days. "Whose breakfast, Katie?"

"Well, if you're not going to eat it-" began Katie, but the newsboy blared again:

"Extra! Titanic's crew and officers are being moved to Washington to continue the hearings!"

Corrine sat bolt upright in her seat. "No," she whispered.

In an instant, she had leaped from her chair and was racing to the boy. She dropped a dime in his hand and snatched a paper from the stack. The boy whooped in surprise at his tip, but Corrine was already flying back to her seat.

She flattened the paper out on the table so that she could read the front page and began scanning the words there rapidly. When she looked up at last, Katie was startled to see that all the color had drained out of her face. "It's true. They're coming to Washington, Katie. Harry's coming here."

* * *

The girl had been sitting in his lobby since morning.

As manager of the Hotel Continental, Albert Chaffee made it his business to keep an eye on his guests... and this young woman was decidedly not one of them. In the first place, she was too young to be sitting unaccompanied in the lobby of a hotel. In the second place, unlike the out-of-town visitors and enthusiastic tourists, she was preternaturally still; he hadn't seen her so much as move, or even fidget, the entire day. And third, her clothing was far too plain for an upscale establishment such as his.

He idly wondered her purpose. Was she a prostitute, looking for a john? No, she didn't seem to be the type; she wore no cosmetics that he could see, and her dress was modest and bland. But she did seem to be waiting for something - or someone. Her eyes were the only thing that moved, and they constantly roved over the faces of the guests coming and going.

He supposed that he couldn't allow her to take up space all day; it might make the paying customers uncomfortable. But he couldn't just throw her out, either - she looked so lost, forlorn... aw, hell, now he was starting to feel sorry for her. And on top of everything else, she reminded him of his own daughter; they likely were of an age together.

Well, he supposed he'd better go see if he could help her. He sighed. His soft heart was going to be the death of him someday.

As he drew nearer, he was able to get a better look at her, and what he saw surprised him. Despite her pale, gaunt face, she was stunning. Come to think of it, her fragile, tragic appearance fit in well with the somber, melodramatic image that the hotel was currently trying to project, in light of the Titanic disaster. As the official host of the sunken ship's surviving officers, the hotel had gained a certain visibility - and notoriety - in the eyes of the world that he was eager to exploit.

"Excuse me, miss, but I couldn't help noticing that you've been here almost all day. Is there something I can help you with?" he inquired solicitously.

"I'm-" her voice was faint, fading. She cleared her throat and tried again. "I'm waiting for the members of Titanic's crew to return from the inquiry," she said in a stronger voice.

He raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Whatever for, miss?" Never say that Albert Chaffee isn't thorough - or nosy - he thought to himself.

"I have to give... something... to one of them,' she replied. He looked down and noticed that she held a worn packet, her thumb rubbing a continuous pattern over the top of it.

How odd, he thought. What could this girl have to do with any of the men from the crew? She couldn't be a sweetheart from home; it would have been impossible to make the journey to America that quickly, even if she had taken the first and fastest boat from Liverpool or Southampton. What an interesting mystery, he mused.

She waited, watching him, and he realized belatedly that she was hoping for an answer. "Miss, I'm truly sorry, but I have no information about their schedule," he said regretfully. "You're welcome to stay as long as you like, though." He was turning to leave when his shrewd mind presented him with a most agreeable suggestion. He eyed her up again. Simple, second-hand clothing, pleasing figure, a face to bring men to tears - perhaps literally. And she had been idle all day, so nothing better to do. Yes, a good idea indeed.

Face wreathed in a warm smile, he bent over her benevolently. "Excuse me, miss, if I'm being too forward... but would you happen to be interested in a job?"

* * *

Charles Lightoller had a somber duty.

As the senior surviving officer of Titanic, it fell to him to write condolence letters to the families of the many dead crewmembers that sank with the ship. He realized, after the first dozen or so, that they were all starting to sound the same. 'My deepest sympathies... your terrible loss... died like a man... brave to the very end'... all of it was true, of course. Every one of those men had died a hero. And yet, he also knew the words rang hollow; nothing he could say, or do, would ease the pain of their deaths, certainly not for their loved ones... nor for him, either.

Today was the hardest letter of all. Today, he would write to Ada Murdoch. Will's wife... now, his widow.

He sat in the nearly-empty breakfast room of the Hotel Continental. It was very early, still dark really, and a few hours remained before the inquiry was to start. He sighed, rubbed his temples, and picked up his pen again.

"Hello, Charles," she heard a quiet voice say beside him.

He looked up, almost dropping the pen, shock coursing through his body at the familiar yet entirely unexpected voice. "Corrine! What on earth are you doing here, lass?" Oddly enough, it was the second time in several days that he had asked her the same question. She kept turning up in the most unexpected places, he mused. He grinned, delighted to see her again, but the smile died on his lips as he examined her more closely.

She was dressed in the pert uniform of a serving girl, and held a full teapot. But it was her eyes that caught his attention. They were flat, lifeless. "Working," she answered with a wan smile.

He peered at her speculatively. She had worn a similar melancholy air when he had run into her at St. Vincent's, but he had attributed that to the trauma of their arrival and her uncertainty about the future. But he realized now that there was more to it than that. This was not the same girl that had tried to throw herself from the boat deck of Titanic, finally winning him over in the process. Nor was it the battered but resilient one who sat in a borrowed bed on the Carpathia and laughed and cried with him after the sinking. No. This Corrine had lost her carefree spirit, the spark in her eyes.

Which begged the question - what had happened to her to make her this way?

He gestured for her to sit, but she shook her head. "I can't," she said simply. "I just... it's nice to see a friendly face." She tried on a smile again, but it didn't quite fit. She patted his arm softly once, then moved off to another table.

He stared after her in dismay. He had to get to the bottom of this. For some reason, he felt very protective of this girl. He needed to have a talk with her, but it would have to wait; he didn't want to get her in trouble with the manager, and he had a letter to write. He shook his head sadly, reluctantly returning to his work.

A sharp intake of breath from behind made him turn around. Harold Lowe stood stock-still at the entrance to the room, staring at Corrine.

His thunderstruck expression meant that he, too, had no idea she would be here - which was strange, considering how close they had become over the past few weeks...

Charles's brow furrowed. He hadn't seen Lowe much recently; he had assumed he was probably devoting every spare minute to Corrine. That's what he would be doing in the man's shoes, after all. But come to think of it, rather than being ecstatic at the prospect of spending time with his new-found love, Lowe had insisted on being even more cantankerous than usual. When they had registered at the hotel, he nearly snapped the head off a nosy reporter who leaned over to peer at his signature. He defiantly confronted another group of reporters with British superiority and a thinly-veiled threat. And during the first few days of testimony, he spent most of the time glowering at either Ismay or Senator Smith. True, none of the officers were exactly thrilled to be forcibly retained in America, but Lowe's reaction seemed to go beyond mere annoyance at the inconvenience. There was something eating at the man.

And, seeing the two of them in the same room, he suddenly had an idea of what that might be.

Lowe moved as if underwater, slowly and hesitantly. He somehow found his way to a table, where he sat stiffly, his eyes tracking her every movement.

Calmly, Corrine walked over to his table. She poured tea into his cup expertly, without spilling a drop. She then set the pot down gently on the table, reached in her apron pocket, and pulled out a packet of papers. She laid it on the table in front of Lowe. Charles strained to hear her, and was just able to pick up her quiet words: "I don't need your money, Mr. Lowe." Her voice trembled only a bit, Charles noted with admiration.

Head high, she walked quickly away, back toward the kitchens. Lowe sat there frozen, staring after her with an expression of tortured misery.

His heart swelled with sympathy for the poor girl, so obviously hopelessly in love, and wounded in some way he didn't understand. But one thing was clear: that bell-end over there was responsible for it.

Charles had seen enough. He swept up the papers and pen, gathering them in a pile, and then strode over to the young officer's table. He drew himself up to his full height, glowering down at the man until he was forced to acknowledge him. "If you don't go to her and make it right, you're a bloody damn fool," he growled.

He watched Lowe's expression change from astonishment, to anger, to shame. Before the man could reply, Charles walked out of the restaurant, to continue his unhappy task without the presence of a certain dimwitted pillock.

* * *

It took ten minutes for her hands to stop shaking, during which she avoided touching any china for fear of dropping it. She took steadying, calming breaths, waiting for her heart rate to slow. Seeing his face again had reopened all her wounds - and brought back a flood of memories, both exquisite and deeply hurtful. She had tried to anticipate it, to prepare herself, knowing that she would see him in the course of her work, but it had been futile to think she could stem the vivid tide with the dam of logic. She shuddered in the wake of the feelings threatening to overwhelm her, struggling to regain the detached listlessness she thought she had mastered after disembarking the Carpathia.

After she had sufficiently quelled her tumultuous emotions and schooled her face to blandness, she returned to the dining area. Charles was gone, she noted, but Harry was still exactly where she had left him, sitting still as stone. His breakfast was untouched, his tea had long since gone cold. The packet was still lying in front of him; he hadn't touched that, either. She wound her way to his table to clear the dishes. While she loaded them onto her tray, she chanced a glance down at him. His long eyelashes were downcast, and he was staring fixedly at the table in front of him. He couldn't - wouldn't - acknowledge her.

She thought she couldn't hurt any more than she already was, but a fresh well of pain opened in her heart at the realization that she had meant so little to him after all. She had to turn away to stifle a sob. She had known it would be difficult to see him again, but she had not expected the cold, unfeeling statue that he had become.

She was moving away when a hand clamped down on her wrist. "Wait," he rasped. Slowly, she turned. Harry's eyes bored into hers. She couldn't read the expression in them, but the intensity of his grip told her that he was holding back some emotion that was threatening to overpower him. Was he angry that she was here? Maybe he thought she was stalking him, like some fallen woman desperate to win back an uncaring beau. She squared her shoulders. In a sense, she had followed him to this hotel... but just to return the money. Not to beg him to take her back, and certainly not because she had needed to see him one last time... No, she told herself firmly. She had only needed to tie up loose ends. And now that she had done so, she would not bother him ever again.

She tried to pull her wrist from his grip. "I have to work, Mr. Lowe," she whispered, turning away from him once again. "I only wanted to return what is yours. I'm sorry if I have upset you."

"I... Corrine, please don't go. Can we talk? Please." His tone was soft, pleading.

Don't, Harry, she begged him silently. I can't stand the pain... She closed her eyes briefly. "Harry, I-"

His hold tightened, so much that she almost squirmed as her wrist bones ground together. "Corrine..." he breathed, his voice breaking.

She squeezed her eyes shut again. "Let me go, Harry," she said faintly. She meant more than just her wrist.

Finally, he did release her, but his eyes, full of suffering, locked onto hers as she reopened them. "I can't, Corrine. I can't, and I won't, and I never will. Come to my room at three today. Room 802. Please."

She stared back at him, confused, uncertain, and thoroughly shaken. She opened her mouth to speak and then abruptly fled from the room, dodging customers and a confused Mr. Chaffee as she hurried away.

* * *

I found a picture of an old postcard that lists an 'A. Chaffee, manager' for the Hotel Continental in 1918. I gave him a first name, and assumed he was also manager in 1912 ;)

Song inspiration: If the World Was Ending - JP Saxe/Julia Michaels


	39. Chapter 30: Anger

Thank you so much to the readers that are still hanging on - love you all, and grateful for each one of you *kisses*

Lowekey: aw, thanks for your perpetual support - it means so much to me that you think I'm doing Lowe justice! And that's amazing that you got to see Lowe's grave! I would LOVE to visit all the places in Wales that were a part of his story: Penrallt in Barmouth, his home in Deganwy, and of course his gravesite. Ah, someday... ;)

In case you didn't catch it in 'New York', Corrine had taken a page from Rose DeWitt Bukater's playbook - you'll see what I mean in this chapter.

This one is dedicated to Rosie, wisest person I know, who has convinced me countless times not to chuck this story. I hope this chapter makes you do backflips in your room as you read it, love ;)

* * *

At ten minutes to three Corrine stood outside Harry's door, shifting uneasily from foot to foot.

Why was she here, anyway? By answering his summons, she was subjecting herself to a form of emotional torture from which she might never recover. Seeing him this morning had been difficult enough; being alone with him without falling to pieces would be near impossible. It was likely that she would be an inconsolable puddle before the evening was over - and for what? What did she hope to derive from this meeting, anyway?

A part of her wanted to hear what he had to say, she supposed. His behavior in the restaurant contrasted so dramatically with his madness on the Carpathia that it roused her curiosity. At first, when he refused to even look at her that morning, she became convinced that he was disgusted with her, appalled by her reappearance in his life, and furious that he would be forced to see and interact with her again. That fear had quickly been mitigated when he had finally spoken, though. 'I can't, and I won't, and I never will...' Those words, said in response to her plea to let her go, had haunted her all morning. What had changed in him, to cause a complete turnabout in his attitude toward her, she wondered? Was it possible that he regretted his decision to end their relationship?

That thought had led her to do some serious soul-searching. Was she holding out hope for a reconciliation, then? She had asked herself that question multiple times throughout the day, and each time her answer grew firmer. No. What had happened that last day on the Carpathia had broken them irrevocably; there was no coming back from it. He had shattered her trust in him, taken away any sense of security she had... and he had been so cruel about it, so careless with her foolish and freely-given heart. Besides, nothing had changed anyway - he was still going to return to England, and she was still not going with him.

In the end, though, no matter how she tried to understand it or rationalize it, she knew she had come for only one reason: because she still loved him. It was indisputable, as undeniable as the sun rising in the east. In spite of everything, she would love him until the end of her days. Which made coming here a risky decision on her part - especially if he tried to win her back.

And she knew she would be tempted. He had looked so earnest in the dining room... his words so sincere... oh, she wanted nothing more than to believe in him again, to pretend that none of this had ever happened. But she would have to stay strong. She would hear what he had to tell her - and perhaps get a chance to have her say as well - and then she would leave as quickly as possible. She needed a permanent end, a clean break - and this last meeting would give her the closure she needed to move on with her life.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she lifted her hand and knocked softly on the door.

It opened immediately, as if Harry had been waiting just on the other side. His eyes held a look of immense relief. "I wasn't sure if you'd come," he confessed.

Her heart leaped at the sight of him, at the sound of his beloved voice... and she knew immediately that this had been a bad idea. "I'm not sure why I did, to be honest," she said quietly, looking at her shoes to distract herself from his grateful expression. She was already second-guessing her decision, and she hesitated, irresolute. Maybe she should just leave, before this became even more painful.

He read the uncertainty in her posture and held up his hand hastily. "Please, don't go." His voice cracked on the last word. He recovered quickly and waved at the room behind him. "Will you sit with me awhile?" he implored.

Reluctantly, she nodded silently in assent, inwardly cursing herself for her weakness. She had not been in his presence for no more than a minute, and she was already giving in, despite her earlier assertions to the contrary. How pathetic she was, she thought miserably, that she couldn't say no to this man, ever.

As she crossed the threshold into the room, she took in his accommodations at a glance. His suite was sumptuous, spacious, and well-furnished. The main sitting room held a plump-looking settee, several scattered armchairs, and a small oak table and chairs, likely for taking light meals. A writing desk sat against a wall, underneath a large window draped with thick damask curtains. She also noted a door to the left, which presumably led to the bedroom.

She carefully kept herself from looking directly at Harry, but stole glances at him from the corner of her eye. He had removed his coat, hat, waistcoat, and tie; his hair was mussed, the top few buttons of his shirt were undone, and his feet were bare. He looked... well, breathtaking in his half-undressed state. A newly cynical part of her wondered if the look was calculated, meant to weaken her resolve. And indeed, she wasn't immune to his physical presence; she had to will her heart to slow, to remind herself of their last meeting and all the pain he had caused her.

Crossing the room, she sat down on the edge of the settee. He sat beside her, then hopped up quickly when he realized that she would be able to successfully evade his gaze at that angle. He dragged over a chair from the small dining set, positioned it so that it was directly in front of her, and sat. She noticed his right knee jiggling nervously.

"How are you, Corrine?" he asked hesitantly. "You look... well."

She grunted noncommittally at the lie. They both knew she looked terrible. She had lost weight from her near-death ordeal... but she had lost more than that. That vivaciousness, the spark of life that he had once adored so much, was gone. She was a blank, unfeeling mannequin - a mockery of her former self.

"I have something to say, and I need you to hear it." He reached out to take her hand, but she pulled it back listlessly. He inhaled sharply, but continued. "I made a mistake, Corrine - a big mistake, the biggest one of my life. I never should have let you go."

Let me go? she thought to herself. How patently unfair of him to make such a statement. "You didn't just let me go, Harry," she retorted, a little of her old spark returning. "You made an impossible demand, then told me it was over forever. And afterward you walked away without another word, another thought..." At that, she was unable to continue. The truth of the words hung between them for a minute, ponderous and insurmountable. She averted her eyes, unwilling for him to see the immense suffering he had caused.

"I know," he said unflinchingly. She was relieved that he wasn't trying to evade responsibility for his role in the separation, at least. "But that last part isn't entirely true. I tried to find you, you know," he added quietly. "Once I realized what I had done... to you, to us... I searched the records of survivors, asked around at the docks, the Red Cross.. I even went to the hospital in New York where the injured were taken. No one had ever heard of you."

Her heart leaped into her throat at the admission. He had... looked for her? That was the last thing she expected to hear him say. She had to pause for a moment as her mind analyzed this new information, fitting it into the narrative she had created in her head. Rather than callously resuming the rhythm of his life without giving her another thought, as she had assumed, his admission meant that he must have been... remorseful for his actions. It rang true with his earlier declaration in the restaurant, too, that he couldn't let her go. Her heart was already rejoicing at the news, but she pushed it back down stubbornly. This changes nothing, she told it silently. It means nothing.

He was still looking at her in confusion, and she gazed steadily back at him, knowing the next sentence would likely hurt him, and yet realizing he had a right to know why his searching had been in vain. "That's because I gave my name as Cora Lowe," she confessed. At his shocked, agonized expression, her mouth twisted up in an approximation of a smile. "You didn't think to look under your own name, did you?"

"Oh, Corrine..." he breathed. He dropped his head in his hands, seemingly lost for words for a minute as he processed that. Finally, he looked up through his eyelashes at her. "Why? Were you... hiding from me?" he asked softly.

"Not exactly. I didn't think you'd bother to look for me anyway." Although she said it without inflection or accusation, she saw him flinch as if he had been struck. "I suppose I was hiding from the world. I wanted to start fresh, begin anew... pretend I was someone else, someone who hadn't gone through..." she waved her hand. "All of it," she finished.

He nodded slowly, his eyes radiating understanding. She had to turn away again, sure that his empathy was going to be her undoing.

"And did you succeed? Were you able to escape what happened to you... what I did to you?" The words were said sincerely, without any trace of self-pity.

"Yes. I'm going to be just fine," she declared, her voice defiant. "I have a job, I have Katie... my new life here in America..." She trailed off as she realized she wasn't convincing him any more than she was convincing herself.

But he wouldn't let it go, wouldn't stop prying. "How did you end up here, in Washington?"

"Well, I wasn't following you, if that's what you were wondering," she said acerbically. She saw his eyebrow flicker at that, and she modified her tone, suppressing that spark again. "I was always planning to come here, with Katie, before I met- before we..." Abruptly, she cut off her sentence, and started again. "Anyway, after I was released from the hospital-"

"You were in hospital?" He sat up suddenly, looking alarmed. "Why? What happened?"

"I had a... spell, when the Carpathia docked." She waved her hand dismissively. "It was nothing. As I was saying," she continued, rushing to speak before he could interrupt with more questions, "Katie and I left New York on Saturday night for Washington. I learned the next day that you were being moved here as well." She paused a moment, unsure if she should tell him the next part, then plunged ahead. "When I found out you were staying at this hotel, I... I decided to seek you out. I wanted to return the money, you see. Mr. Chaffee saw me in the lobby, waiting, and hired me on the spot."

"So you came here to see me," he said slowly, as if reassuring himself.

"For closure," she quickly clarified. "To wrap up loose ends."

He shook his head adamantly, as if to ward off her words. "But there will never be closure, Corrine, because there can't be an end."

She gaped at him. Again, his declaration was making her traitorous heart sing - but it was also starting to irritate the rational part of her brain as well. He was being presumptuous, assuming that she would fall back into his arms... and she had no intention of doing so, no matter how her heart protested that decision.

She opened her mouth to argue, but now it was his turn to hurry over her objections. "There are many things that still need to be said between us... but the first and most important is this." He took a deep breath. "Corrine, what happened on the Carpathia... the things I said... you had to know I didn't mean a word of it." His voice was soft, regretful. "I won't try to justify what I did, and I know nothing will erase it, but I want you to know how very sorry I am - for all of it."

Once again she had to look away from his burning gaze. His words, his heartfelt appeals... she felt her resistance wearing thin, her walls starting to break down. And she couldn't let that happen: she had to protect herself at all costs, fend off his efforts, or she would forget herself entirely. And she knew if she didn't leave soon, she would lose herself to him all over again.

There was only one thing to do about it, then. She then took a deep breath and forced herself to say the words she had rehearsed on the way up to his rooms - the ones that would put an end to the discussion - and their ill-fated relationship - forever. "I accept your apology, and I forgive you... but I can't forget that it happened. And I think it was a mistake for me to come here in the first place."

She made herself stand, even though it felt like her entire body was made of lead. Gravity threatened to pull her down, make her stay... oh, how she wanted to stay, to have faith in him once again...! But her mind, her pride, would not allow it. Shaking her head dully, she said, "I'm sorry, but there's nothing more left to say, Harry." Slowly, she began moving toward the door. Step by step... inch by inch... if she could make it there, if she could put her hand on the knob, she could end this torture; she could leave and put this pain behind her once and for all.

She couldn't look at him, but she could sense his openmouthed shock. Suddenly, there was a flurry of movement, a rush of air - and he was in front of her, blocking the door with his body, his agitated expression in stark contrast with her lifeless demeanor.

"No." He said it quietly but firmly, leaving no room for argument.

She looked up at him uncomprehendingly. No...? Instantly, she was shaken out of her stupor. She stared him down, her lethargy dissipating in a rush... and slowly replaced by a new and unfamiliar feeling.

"No, Corrine," he repeated. "You don't mean that. You're angry - and you have every right to be - but you don't mean it." His face was pinched with anxiety, but there was a steely determination in his eyes that made her realize that he wasn't going to let her go without a fight.

Her disbelief swiftly changed to incredulity. How dare he tell her she couldn't leave - and how dare he presume to tell her how to feel?! "I'm not angry," she snapped, irritated... and then felt the truth of his statement as hot fury bubbled to the surface at last, startling her with its force.

He read the hardening in her eyes and nodded, as if in confirmation. "Prove it. Stay, and don't hold back on me - tell me exactly how you feel, and I'll do the same. And if you're still determined to leave at the end, when we've both had our say... then I won't stand in your way. You can walk out of my life forever and I won't stop you. But please... please don't leave now."

So he thought he could control her, did he; he thought he could tell her what to do once again? Well, he was a slow learner for sure... but if that's how he wanted it, then fine - she would teach him not to toy with her emotions. She narrowed her eyes and set her jaw. He noticed, and a glimmer of amusement arose in his own eyes. "That's better," he said. He inclined his head, indicating for her to return to the settee. With a huff and a swirl of skirts, she stomped over and sat, staring a hole into the plush carpeting.

She felt rather than saw him take a seat in the chair across from her again. There was a long pause as she sat unblinkingly focused on the floor. "Shall I go first, Corrine, or would you like to start?" he said tentatively at last.

She didn't reply; she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of playing along with his games.

"Right, then it'll be me, I suppose, although I think I've done enough talking already." He hesitated, then surged ahead. "I said what I said on the Carpathia, and I can't take it back - though God knows I wish I could. I was a coward, a bastard, and I lashed out at you out of desperation and worry for the future. It was the worst thing I could have done to you. But what I want you to know is that my fear was driven by this one simple fact: I can't live without you, Corrine."

Under normal circumstances, this would have melted her - but this was anything but normal. Besides, she had anticipated him saying this, and had prepared herself for it.

"I believe you told me that before," she said caustically, mocking his attempt at reconciliation. She was taken aback by her own venom - but he didn't seem surprised at all.

"I did - but it was said in selfishness then, to make you feel guilty, and obligated to me." This was said candidly, without any attempt at evasion. "I'm telling you I can't live without you now because I've tried, and I will fail; we need each other, Corrine. We belong together, and you know it."

"You assume too much," she ground out. Where was this obstinance coming from? she wondered in the back of her mind. He was saying all the right things... and yet all it was doing was making her fume.

"My darling-"

"Don't call me that," she bit out, glaring at him, and suddenly the spark from earlier erupted into a flame.

Anger. It went against her very nature; even in the worst days with her father, she hadn't allowed herself to feel that emotion. Simmering resentment, yes; and of course they had disagreed, argued, even fought... but she had always remained in control, never gave in and lashed out, even as her father shouted and raged at her. But her father had never hurt her the way the man sitting in front of her had. Still, she tried to leash her fury, her years of training and experience soothing her father and her customers battling for supremacy over her hostility.

She gritted her teeth with the effort of holding in her emotions. "Let it all out, Corrine," Harry murmured, watching the conflict play over her face. "Drop that mask you've worn to protect yourself, and let me have it."

Sudden longing pierced her heart - for a moment, she was back in bed on the Carpathia, not on that terrible final day, but the evening they had laughed together and shared stories of their pasts. He knew her so well... he could read her heart and mind like no one else, and he knew the price she had paid to conquer her pain. For a moment, sorrow and anger warred in her heart... but the anger won out again. She stood up, needing to move, to burn off some of the energy coursing through her body. Restlessly, she began rapidly pacing between the doorway and the settee, turning sharply on her heel as she strode the small space and nearly colliding with him as he moved to hover near the door once again.

"Let you have it? You have a nerve, asking me for anything at all after what you did. I owe you nothing," she growled, fists clenched at her sides.

"Tell me, Corrine. Tell me how I hurt you," he urged. His voice was so gentle, so compassionate - and it made her want to scream.

She rolled her eyes and huffed in exasperation instead. "As if you didn't know! You tried to force me into a life to which I was adamantly opposed - and I had good reasons, by the way. And did you even ask me what I wanted? No! It was all about you!" She wanted to lash out, to make him feel the way she had felt that awful morning. It was cruel, and unfair, and she hated herself for it - and yet, a small, mean part of her looked forward to delivering each blow.

He nodded, gesturing for her to continue, although his expression was stricken with shame.

"And when I tried to tell you why I couldn't do so, you rejected me, insulted me, threw my... affection-" she refused to call it what it really was: love "-back in my face, and... and..."

She had worked up a good head of steam by that point. A detached part of her brain registered indifferently the irony of her situation. She and Harry had switched roles: he was now the calm, soothing one - and she was the raging, emotional storm.

"And then, Mister Lowe," she bit out, deliberately drawing out the formality, "you had the gall to... to throw money at me - as if I could be bought - or worse, as if in compensation for your broken promises-" her voice cracked on the last word, but she kept pacing furiously.

"I didn't- I wasn't-"

"I've never been so insulted in all my life!" she roared. She had the full weight of her father's Irish temper behind her now; even her usually mild brogue had thickened. That amused, detached part of her again chimed in, telling her that this character trait was likely there all along, lying latent inside of her - but she had never been angry enough before to tap into it.

She stopped her tirade long enough to look at him. He stood a few feet away, feet braced apart and planted on the carpet, hands clasped behind his back, head bowed. He looked for all the world like he was standing on the rolling deck of a storm-tossed ship.

And it was indeed a storm he was enduring - an emotional storm of his own making. He had asked for it: she was giving him a piece of her mind, just like he wanted. And she wasn't done yet. "And you walked off that ship without so much as a bye your leave, or a glance back..." She was panting now, her breath coming in hot gasps as she delivered the final blow: "You just left- you left me..." This time, she couldn't keep her voice from trembling. She stopped pacing, her whole body shaking with the effort to control her tumultuous emotions.

He raised his head at last, and she was shocked to see tears streaming down his cheeks, his face a mask of pain. Her heart sank to her feet.

Oh, what had she done?!

* * *

Harry's rooms are nice, yes? I could find very little information on the officers' accommodations at the Hotel Continental; the hotel itself was torn down in 1972. There are several postcards that reference '250 bedrooms, 200 baths', and there's a lovely picture of the restaurant where Corrine works, but that's about all that remains - no pictures of the rooms themselves exist, at least none that I could locate. What we know from Titanic lore is that when the officers were moved to Washington, Lightoller objected to being housed in the same hotel as the crew; the compromise was to give the surviving officers rooms on a separate floor, along with separate dining arrangements. There may have well been 'suites' in a hotel like the Continental; they were often found in mid-priced hotels during this era, particularly on the upper floors (although Lightoller called it a 'second-rate boarding house', the Continental manager himself called it a 'first-class hotel', ha!). So I am taking liberties with the setting, but it's not entirely outside the realm of possibility.


	40. Chapter 31: Crossroads

I know I didn't post last week - sorry about that! I wanted to spend a little extra time on this and the next chapter to make sure I get them right.

inolongerhere and nofandom - welcome aboard! Lowekey: I love EmotionalHarry too! And you'll see him again in this chapter ;)

* * *

Corrine stared at Harry's pain-wracked features in horror. Even at her angriest, she had never wanted to hurt him. But she had been so consumed with giving vent to her feelings of betrayal and suffering that she hadn't even thought about how it would affect him.

Once again, she fluctuated between anger and sorrow - but this time, sorrow won. Sudden shame rushed through her. "I... I think I'd better sit down, Harry." Her voice wobbled again as she said it, and she retreated to the settee, not able to meet his eyes.

After a moment, she felt him sit down beside her, rather than in front of her on the chair. She exhaled deeply, feeling the anger empty from her body. "I'm sorry," she said quietly. "That wasn't fair."

"No, I deserved all that and then some. The truth hurts sometimes, but that doesn't make it any less true." She chanced a glance at him and saw that his reassuring words were in stark contrast to his miserable expression.

They sat there for some time in silence, shoulders almost brushing. He sniffled and scrubbed at his face with his sleeve, wiping away the evidence of his anguish, and she almost reached out and touched his arm to comfort him, but thought better of it.

Once again, she was wracked with indecision. She didn't know what to say, or do... she didn't even know what to think. Her emotions were a whirl of regret, agony, sorrow, and embarrassment. At least that terrible fury had abated, though; she hated the way it had taken over her body, made her vengeful and vindictive.

But what now? Should she try to leave again? Her mind feebly endorsed that idea, but it was strongly overridden by her heart. No. She wouldn't leave him now. She owed him that much.

Harry hadn't said anything in a long while, and she sensed that he was waiting for her mind to clear. She was immeasurably grateful for his patience, that he didn't push her. Finally, she glanced over at him again, and found his gaze trained on her face. His expression had calmed, and she noticed to her great relief that he was no longer crying. When he saw that she was looking up at him with remorse, and not hatred, his tense shoulders relaxed. "Corrine? Do you feel better?" he ventured tentatively.

Silently, she nodded; she still didn't trust her voice, not after that recent outburst.

That must have encouraged him to pick up the thread of their conversation where they had left off, because he started in afresh, as if her tirade had never happened. "Corrine, all I can do is tell you once again how very sorry I am for everything. But if you forgive me, I swear I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to you."

She almost groaned in exasperation. Harry had taken a frightful verbal beating at her hands - and had made no attempt to fight back, or defend himself. He just listened quietly, letting her expel the poisonous feelings she had pent up inside - and then went right back to pursuing a reunion. The amused part of her brain, which was still functioning independently of the rest of her, told her this was why he had risen so high in the merchant marines: because he didn't know when to give up. What was it going to take to get him to let it go, though? And how much more could she endure of his honeyed words, his heartfelt declarations?

Well, she would have to find a way to persevere, she told herself stubbornly. Now that she had her wits about her again, she resolved to keep a cool, collected head for however long this would last. But although she knew that she should leave well enough alone, and not give him too many openings to tempt her treacherous heart, she couldn't quite hold her tongue. "I don't understand, Harry. You seemed quite certain of your decision to leave me behind when you were disembarking the Carpathia. Why did you change your mind?"

The question wasn't meant to be cutting, but he cringed anyway. "You say it like leaving you was easy. I suppose I made it look that way, didn't I? Because I'm a bloody stubborn fool who can't admit when he's wrong." He paused to let out a long, disgusted sigh. "But ever since those words left my mouth, my gut's been twisted into knots; I've barely eaten, I can't sleep... If you only knew how much I-" His voice trembled, and he paused.

Taking a deep breath, he collected himself. "Can I tell you a little story? I seem to remember you used to like them." He said it with a ghost of a smile, and she felt the corners of her own mouth begin to lift automatically before she caught herself and gave him a stiff nod of permission.

His eyes grew distant, and he stared unseeingly at the pattern on the wallpaper as if reliving the events all over again. "After we disembarked," he began quietly, "they escorted the crewmembers to the Lapland. The White Star Line officials were there, and they took the four of us officers and Mr. Ismay into the dining saloon, where they fired questions at us for what seemed like hours. At the end, after we had given every little detail we could remember, one of those businessmen said a prayer for the lost, as well as a prayer of thanksgiving for those who had lived. And it was then, while I was pretending to be consoled by his words, that I had my epiphany: I may have survived, but I didn't feel alive. Not anymore. Because living without you was like not living at all. That's when the enormity of what I had done finally hit me."

She held herself very still, absorbing what he had just said. It was an eerily similar echo of her own thoughts when she was leaving New York, as if he had plucked the words right out of her mind, and the coincidence sent a shudder crawling down her spine. She knew all too well what it meant to be alive but not feel that way. It seemed that the reverberation of his callous words had caused similar damage in both of their hearts.

She didn't try to stop him, so he continued. "I wanted to bolt from the room then, to find you and take back everything I said before it was too late. But they wouldn't let me off the ship until the inquiry started the next morning. As soon as it ended that afternoon, I set off in search of you." He exhaled again and ran his fingers through his hair, absently tugging on the strands as he forced the next part out. "I looked everywhere, but it was like you had disappeared somehow, vanished into thin air. But I never stopped trying - I chased down every lead, even the unlikely ones, put advertisements in the New York papers before we left... I even wandered the streets when we arrived here in Washington, hoping against hope that I would find you. And I promised myself that if I ever did, I was never going to let you go." He removed his hands from his disheveled hair and spread them in supplication. "I will do whatever it takes to win you back," he finished simply. "Will you please give me another chance?"

Silence settled over the room, amplifying his last pleading request. He was looking at her expectantly, and she quickly averted her gaze, not wanting him to know how deeply his words had affected her. In her mind's eye, she saw him as he must have been in New York, agitated and desperate, and it tugged on her heartstrings. And his words rang with the conviction of a man that had realized his mistakes and wanted more than anything in the world to make amends for them. But she had fought too hard to rise up out of the sunless pit he had put her in to capitulate the minute he waved a white flag.

As the silence stretched out, and she did not reach for him, did not give him the absolution he was seeking, his hands wavered. Eventually, sensing her ambivalence, he dropped them and looked away, shamefaced. She knew it must have taken considerable courage for him to put his ego aside and humbly beg her for a fresh start, and her rejection was a fresh blow on top of the wounds already suffered between them.

But she had her pride, too. Besides, she sensed that something was missing; despite his impassioned words, it felt as if he were holding something back.

And she would not yield even an inch of her soul to a man who would not give his all to her.

He didn't seem to know what to do with his hands; they fidgeted and twisted restlessly in his lap as he waited for her next move. She realized that she had to answer his entreaty, but she didn't want to worsen his pain - or humiliate him further. Shaking her head slowly, she said, "I'm sorry, Harry, but I can't go through that again." She was surprised to hear her voice sounded firm, despite the distress and confusion washing over her. "You hurt me far worse than you know." She hesitated. Did she have the courage to bare herself to him fully? Could she tell him how she felt, without shattering into pieces? "You…you broke my heart," she said quietly at last. "In just a few short weeks, you had become my whole world – and when you left, you took everything with you."

Her heart was pounding now; she had never even admitted that to herself, and it was difficult sharing this much with him after everything that had happened. She buried her head in her hands, trying to shut the floodgates of emotions that were threatening to sweep her into his arms.

He tried to tug her hands gently away from her face, but again she pulled away. She didn't trust herself to let him touch her; her insides felt hollow, as if exposing her weakness and vulnerability had left her chest cracked open. After she had taken a few deep breaths to calm herself, she looked up. His mouth was twisted with fresh sorrow at her words, and he was staring down at his hands, which were folded loosely in his lap. He seemed so desolate. She wondered if he was finally admitting defeat at last, if he was getting ready to keep his end of the bargain and let her walk away now that she had unloaded on him. For some reason, the thought made her feel panicky, but she pushed it back down. That was what she wanted, right - a clean break, an end to all of it?

But once again, he surprised her; even in the face of her stubbornness, he refused to yield. His voice quavering with emotion, he said, "I know just how much I hurt you, Corrine, believe me. Every careless and cruel word I uttered that day was a sword thrust in my own heart as well - and I'm still bleeding." He emphasized his declaration with a hand to his chest.

Well, that was rather poetic, her detached mind mused. As she was mulling over his impassioned words, he leaned closer, capturing her eyes with his mesmerizing brown stare. "But I will make it right. I promise. Please... just trust me." The insistence in his voice was tinged with desperation.

She flinched at the words 'I promise', but recovered quickly and gave him a skeptical look. "You broke me once, it could happen again."

"Never again, Corrine." Suddenly animated, he gripped her shoulders tightly, adamantly. "Do you hear me? I will never do that to you again." His voice throbbed with sincerity, and she had to look away from his wild, beseeching eyes.

Oh, why was he still persisting? she thought in despair. This man was going to be the death of her.

And she was becoming increasingly more convinced that she would rather die in his arms than live without him again.

She steeled her heart. He was making it so difficult to refuse him - and the last thing she needed was to trust him, only to end up lonely and devastated once more. The thought of going through that again made her bitter, and she shot back, "Until you change your mind, that is. Until you decide that you don't approve of my choices again. Until you decide what's best for me and want to bend me to your will."

If her words hurt this time, he didn't show it. "Corrine Donnelly, I don't care what you do in life, as long as you're with me. And you don't have to be with me physically," he hastily amended, "but if you're here-" he touched his chest, "and I'm there-" he reached out hesitantly, and then gently laid his hand over her heart, "then that's the only thing that matters."

He seemed as if he were about to say more, and she sensed that unreachable part of him again - only this time, like a festering blister, it was close to the surface, seeking an outlet. But then he closed his mouth around the words, and as the moment passed she watched the conflict play across his face.

Her own internal warfare prevented her from pulling away from him this time. Still, she fought it, battling the resurgence of hope welling in her chest. Numbly, she shook her head. "Please don't, Harry," she begged. "Don't tell me what I want to hear, and then-"

"Damn it, Corrine!" he barked suddenly. Turning away from her, he pounded his knee with his fist in frustration. For the first time during their conversation, he appeared to be losing his hard-fought composure. She watched with growing unease as he struggled in vain to contain the disappointment, anger, and fear that flitted across his features. She was just starting to realize that she may have pushed him too far, when he blurted out, "What is it going to take for you to see my heart? What is it going to take for you to see how much I love you?!"

And there it was - in that unguarded, spontaneous moment, he had finally revealed the secret he was trying so desperately to hide from her.

She went rigid, the blood draining from her face. Surely she had imagined the words that had just come out of his mouth. She turned slowly toward him. "What did you say, Harry?" she whispered.

One look at his huge, startled eyes told her that he had never had any intention of letting that admission slip out. He seemed just as surprised as she was by the confession. Nonetheless, he swallowed and took a deep breath, as if mustering his courage, and repeated it again. "I said I love you, Corrine." He held her gaze unflinchingly, his face equal parts terrified and elated.

The declaration, said simply and baldly, hung in the air a moment between them, a living thing - the one thing she had been yearning to hear above all else. It squeezed the air out of her lungs, froze all her thoughts and words. She felt as if she were floating out of her body, staring at him, as his soul - his beautiful, expressive soul - opened to her fully for the first time.

And then the bubble burst. No. That was not fair. He couldn't use those words - not when she hadn't been permitted to tell him... Her anger came roaring back with a vengeance, and she leaped suddenly from the settee, startling Harry, who also jumped up in alarm. "No, Harry. You don't have the right to say that! You don't have the right!" She was practically shouting, eyes blazing with a combination of fury and agony.

Instead of being upset or hurt, though, he gazed at her steadily, his own eyes filling with an unbearable tenderness. He nodded. "You're right, Corrine. I don't have the right. But it's the truth, and I'll say it again: I love you." He took a slow, deliberate step closer to her. "I love you." He edged closer still. "I love you," he whispered onto her lips.

She took a shuddering breath. They stood there like that for several seconds, frozen. She knew that he was waiting for her to make the next move; he was leaving their fate in her hands.

There was never any question about it, though, was there? Her heart had told her all along that resistance was futile. From the moment they locked eyes in Southampton, she had belonged to him - and he knew it. And finally - finally - she knew that she had claimed his heart, too. Everything that had happened between them - both beautiful and terrible - no longer mattered in that moment. Only the present remained, and she surrendered to it entirely. Reaching up her hand, she tangled it in his hair, pulled his head down to hers, and pressed her lips against his.

"Oh, Harry," she sighed ardently against him, and finally said the words she had been holding back for so long. "I love you, too."

She heard him choke on a sob as his hands came up to cup her face. He brushed his thumbs across her cheeks as he held his mouth on hers, his fingers trembling on her skin. "Thank God," he breathed. Then he was kissing her back, overloading her senses as he enveloped her with his soft, warm lips. Their mouths moved tentatively, gently, an acknowledgment of the pain they had both caused and suffered. But it was a reuniting, healing kiss, and as they reconnected physically, she could feel their hearts intertwining once again as well.

After a long minute, he pulled back to look at her. "That's my girl," he smiled, eyes welling with tears again. Then he dipped his head and kissed her again, deeper and longer, wrapping his arms around her waist to pull her toward him.

They had never kissed like this before. Prior to this, their other kissing sessions had escalated quickly, fueled by passion and an unquenchable need for more. But this time, this one time, just kissing was enough. As his lips caressed hers again and again, gently and tenderly, she felt sudden giddiness rise in her chest, and she wanted to laugh out loud. She was dizzy, breathless, delirious with joy.

She broke away at last, gasping for air, and saw the same look in his eyes she had seen when she had first awakened on the Carpathia, the one she hadn't been able to place before. But this time she knew.

It was love.

Suddenly she felt shaky again, but for an entirely different reason. Those three little words had set off a chain reaction in her body that she hadn't acknowledged at the time, but now the delayed response was catching up with a vengeance. It was as if she had been holding her breath for days, and now that she could finally inhale again, the relief of it was disorienting, overwhelming her. That voice in her head spoke up one last time, informing her that the realization of her dreams was causing the earth to quite literally shift beneath her feet.

Harry's brow furrowed in concern. "What-" he began, but she couldn't speak; the torrent of emotions pouring through her was making her lightheaded. It was as if a fever had broken, leaving her feeling weak and drained. The room started to swirl around her, and she shivered and quaked all over, leaning into his chest, needing the comfort of his solidity. He immediately sank down into the settee, pulling her with him, and held her tightly, his chin resting lightly on the top of her head while he gingerly rubbed her back. Burying her face in his neck, she let his familiar scent soothe her as she waited for the storm to subside.

Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity, she felt the shadow pass from her heart, the band of tension and grief that had tightened around her chest since that final day on the Carpathia lifting at last. Her heart rate began to slow, but she stayed where she was, nuzzling him as she reacquainted herself with his nearness, his body. It was astounding how quickly and fully she had given herself to him again, once the barriers around her heart fell... but she regretted nothing, feared nothing, now that she knew he loved her.

It seemed that he felt the same; he kept touching her hair, her face, her arm - every part of her body he could reach - as if reassuring himself that she was real. His lips brushed her earlobes, her eyelids, her cheeks, over and over. "I've missed you so much," she sighed as he caressed her with his hands and lips. It was the understatement of the year, she knew, but no words invented would have been adequate to describe the relief she felt at being back in his arms. If this was a dream, she thought happily, she hoped she would never wake up.

She closed her eyes and sent a quick prayer up to God, fate, and all the stars above for bringing them back together, and then, with renewed devotion, lavished her affection on the man she loved beyond all reason.


	41. Chapter 32: Confessions Part Two

Thank you so much to all my reviewers this past week - it was great to hear from you, and to know that you felt the reunion was worth the wait. This has always been a tricky part of the tale for me to tell, and so your kind words mean much more to me than I could ever say.

This chapter is all one long conversation because these lovefools still have a lot of air-clearing to do. But if they (and you) get through it, there just may be some action coming :)

* * *

Finally, Harry broke off his little displays of endearment and tipped her chin up to gaze into her eyes. "I thought I had lost you forever, you know," he murmured, a small frown creasing his brow at the thought.

Corrine gave him a wry smile. "Harry, you always had my heart - even when it was broken into pieces." She kissed him again - she couldn't seem to keep her lips off of him - and stared up at him adoringly. "I should thank you for not giving up on us," she said softly. "If it weren't for your patience and determination, we'd still be alone and miserable."

He snorted. "I'd have to be a bloody damn fool to let you go again, Corrine." He looked amused for some reason, as if he were remembering something.

"Still, it's quite brave of you to argue with an Irish lass when her temper's up, you know," she joked, nudging him gently.

He shrugged it off and said, "That was the easy part. The hard part was getting the courage to approach you this morning in the first place."

She winced slightly. "I'm sure - especially after I threw that money back at you."

"Stubborn girl." He tweaked her nose, and she snickered.

"Whatever made you do it, anyway, oh courageous one?" she teased, playing with his hair. She basked in the joy of their banter, realizing how very much she had missed it.

His face split into a slow grin. "Let's just say... my conscience spoke to me."

"Your... conscience?" she repeated. The way he said it made her wonder if if their little drama in the dining room had led to a confrontation with a certain former second officer after she had left.

"Yes - the same conscience that told me to pull myself together." He was still smiling, but his eyes grew serious. "I'm glad I finally listened."

That made her sit up and pay attention. She sensed there was something more he needed to tell her, and so she gently prodded, "What do you mean, Harry? About pulling yourself together? Why would you need to do that?"

He shifted uncomfortably, and with some trepidation she noticed that he had withdrawn from her, albeit unconsciously. No. She couldn't let him create distance between them again. Whatever was bothering him, she was determined that they would face it together. But she knew that she would have to be as persistent as he had been earlier if she wanted to get it out of him. "I don't want to press you, Harry," she said very gently, "but I think you should talk about it."

He cleared his throat uneasily. "I'm not sure you want to hear all this, Corrine." His voice was heavy with melancholy, with a pain she was only beginning to guess at.

"Of course I do, Harry," she assured him. She cupped his face in her palm tenderly, as if by her gentle touch she could impart the strength he needed to confide in her. "I want to understand... and I want to help."

He again pulled away and ran his hand through his hair, his discomfort apparent. "I don't know if you can. I've been fighting a lot of demons lately, Corrine. And they almost destroyed me - and us."

Her heart sank. Whatever was haunting him must be unspeakable. "Please, Harry," she begged. "Tell me." She tried to keep her voice as soothing as possible despite the dread building in her own chest.

He looked down at his hands, which were clasped in his lap. He opened his mouth, started to speak, closed it again, and then shook his head, frustrated. He was obviously having difficulty getting the words out. Finally, he said falteringly, "I wasn't... quite right... after the sinking. I'm still not right, really. I felt - feel - like something's broken in me. That's not an excuse for how I behaved, by the way," he clarified hastily, "but it is an explanation of sorts."

And for the first time, he began opening up about how the sinking had changed him. He hadn't talked much about that night at all, other than providing the brief summary of how he came to find her in the collapsible. But now he confided in her about the growing dread that had risen in his chest as he waited in the little boat, watching the brightly lit decks of that beautiful ship dip slowly beneath the water. He described the sounds of those final terrible moments as the giant hulk disappeared with so many passengers and crewmembers still aboard, knowing in his heart that she was one of them. And then he told her of his return to that black hell, turning over frozen bodies in his desperate search and praying each one wasn't her. He spared no detail, although at times his voice broke and he became so choked up he could scarcely force the words from his throat.

But once he began talking about his emotions, his speech flowed much more freely; in fact, there was no hesitation, no struggle to articulate at all. His guilt, his fear for her, his feelings of cowardice - even his resentment at having been saved - all came pouring out of him in a halting, rambling, sometimes barely coherent torrent of words and phrases. It seemed that confessing the grim secrets that been plaguing him had opened the floodgates to his soul. She knew he was holding nothing back - even his darkest thoughts were dragged into the light to be seen and examined, although some of the recriminations he heaped upon himself made her feel physically ill.

But Corrine didn't interrupt, didn't try to argue or counter him, although she desperately wished to. No, it was more important for him to let it out, to lay bare his heart, however misguided his perspective was. There would be time to persuade him later, to make him see that he was not the monster he thought he was. For now, it was enough that he would no longer have to carry his heavy burden alone, in silence.

He looked over at her at last, and saw her eyes filled with sympathy and tears. "Oh, Harry," she said softly. She was lost for words for a long moment as she struggled to speak. The terrible things he had said made her want to break down and sob, but now was not the time. Right now, she had to be strong for him; he needed to know he could lean on her for support and unconditional loyalty. "You're wrong about so many things, and I say that in the most loving way possible." She gave him a trembling smile. "If you could only see-"

"The truth?" he cut in bitterly. The self-loathing reflected in his eyes made her flinch. "The truth is, I think I only went back for you, Corrine," he snapped. "That doesn't make me a hero, like everyone says; it makes me selfish." He gritted his teeth against the pain the admission caused him and then bowed his head, refusing to meet her eyes.

She gaped at him in openmouthed shock. Of all the things he had said, this was by far the worst. For him to brand himself dishonorable and weak, all because he loved her, was something she couldn't accept. And she would not let it stand. "That's not true, Harry," she insisted adamantly.

But his expression was immovable, carved into a stony mask of self-hatred. And in that moment it became obvious to her that although he may have escaped the knives of the icy water that night, he was still bleeding from a thousand cuts nonetheless.

Her heart lurched with horror and pity. "Harry, look at me," she demanded softly. He ignored her, his gaze fixed on the carpet. Desperate to get his attention, she fell to the floor and knelt in front of him, staring up into his face until he was forced to acknowledge her at last. "None of that is true," she said, her voice rising as she became more insistent.

"Corrine," he said, unnerved, "Don't-" He made to pull her back up to the settee, but she obstinately stayed glued to the carpet.

"Do you hear me?" she enunciated firmly.

Several tense heartbeats passed before he finally nodded his head, as if in defeat. "But I'm not a hero," he stubbornly reiterated.

"Not a hero, Harry, just a good man," she said tenderly. "And in time you'll believe it too." She rested her hands on his knees, her eyes boring into his with almost zealous fervor. "I'll make you see who you really are."

They stayed like this for a long moment, Corrine's unyielding, steady gaze meeting his tormented one, until at last he relented. With a sigh, he scooped her up in his arms and set her back down next to him.

"That's better," she murmured. She smoothed his hair down and gave him a pacifying smile.

His expression still skeptical, he hurried to continue before her compassion undid him. "Anyway, all that is why I tried to force you to go back to England. Everything was falling apart around me - around us - and I thought if I could hold on tight to the one thing in my life that was good and beautiful..." He fought to keep his voice steady, then continued, "... then I could make it all go away. But in my desperation, I was cruel, and I hurt you so much..." His voice broke at last, and he looked away for a minute, once again fighting back tears.

"Harry, none of that matters now," she said emphatically, and she was surprised to find that she meant it with all her heart. "What matters is that you heal."

He shook his head again, warding off her forgiveness, and said, "No, Corrine. I should have opened up to you about what I was thinking and feeling. I should have told you the truth. But I couldn't even be honest with myself, much less you."

Her eyes widened as another piece of the puzzle fell into place. "Is that why you didn't want to tell me you love me?" she asked softly.

He snorted self-deprecatingly. "So you picked up on that, eh?" Then he let out a deep breath and settled back against the settee. "I should've told you the minute I knew... and I had every intention of doing so, believe me." He smiled. "It was a revelation I couldn't wait to share with you, to be honest. But then the Titanic sank... and... well, as you've heard, it changed me. And I didn't want to make you feel obligated to stay with me when I had become an entirely different man from the one you first met. I suppose deep down I thought... I thought you might be better off without me."

She goggled at him. "I hope you know now that that was utterly daft, Harry. I was barely breathing without you." Then she gave him a rueful look. "And all that time you spent trying to win me back earlier... you could have saved yourself the trouble and just said those three little words. That's all it would have taken."

"I know, I know," he said sheepishly. "I wasn't thinking straight at the time. But in my defense, I didn't give a damn about myself; I only wanted to make sure I didn't hurt you again. And it didn't seem fair that I should declare my love after I had made such a cock-up of everything. So it made perfect sense to try and hide my true feelings from you."

At no time did that make sense to her... and yet, as she was now coming to understand, she had not the slightest idea what had been going through his mind after the sinking. All the time on the Carpathia he had spent entertaining and distracting her with stories, bringing her food and helping her walk... it had all been about her. He had been suffering through his own personal hell, and he never let it show.

Everything that had happened that terrible morning was now re-examined in light of her newfound understanding. And as the enormity of his sacrifice crystallized in her mind, any residual doubt that her well-being had been his priority and his sole focus all along vanished completely. But in its place came the sickening realization that she had been complicit in his suffering. In her preoccupation with her own needs and fears, she had completely missed all the signs of his distress.

Her chest burned with self-recrimination and regret for the role she had played in their demise, however inadvertent. "Oh, Harry," she exclaimed softly. He cocked his head, startled and concerned at the sudden welling of emotion in her voice. "You've been in so much pain, and you've kept it all inside, here" - she touched his chest with the tip of her finger - "where no one can see."

He shrugged, his expression nonchalant, though she could tell he was uncomfortable. "Well, of course," he said flippantly. "Men aren't supposed to have feelings, Corrine."

Her body stiffened in protest. "That's a rubbish rule, Harry, and it doesn't apply to us," she countered, and his derisive smile vanished at once. "No one could've experienced what we did and escape without scars." She paused, then shook her head sorrowfully. "But I didn't even notice yours, because I was so caught up in myself. I wasn't there for you when you needed me. And I'm so very, very sorry for that, Harry," she finished, her voice heavy with contrition.

"Corrine, you had your own burdens-"

"No, Harry... that's no excuse," she interrupted. "And since we're being completely honest with one another now, there's something I need to tell you. You're not the only one keeping secrets," she admitted. He looked up at her in surprise. "Yes, I've been holding back from you, too. After the sinking, I felt like I was going to lose you-"

"Lose me!" he interrupted, his expression incredulous. But she held up a finger, stilling his protests, and he let her continue.

"...I was falling apart inside, too, and the only thing keeping me together was you... but I was convinced that I wasn't good enough, that some other woman was going to take you from me. And so I did some... foolish things, and they ultimately wound up pushing you away. My insecurity was as much to blame for what happened between us as anything."

"Bollocks," he spluttered. "The actions you took in your moments of self-doubt pale in the face of my utter stupidity. But why on earth would you think that anyone could ever come between us?"

She shrugged. "I guess I could never truly reassure myself that you loved me because you had so many... better options."

His look was disbelieving - and more than a little angry. "Better? No one could hold a candle to you, Corrine," he said emphatically. "No one ever-"

Now it was her turn to interrupt. "But it was only once I had lost you that I realized those things that once bothered me were petty and insignificant in the face of all that we had suffered and lost."

He stared at her for a long time as they both grasped the irony of the situation. Then a small smile tugged at his mouth. "We've been at cross purposes this whole time, haven't we?"

"And we were both eejits," she grinned back. "From now on, we share our burdens, all right?"

He nodded slowly in agreement, looking suddenly vulnerable. "Then, will you help me, Corrine? Will you help fight the darkness in me?" he beseeched, his voice breaking.

In that moment he reminded her so much of a lost little boy that it nearly broke her heart. "Oh, Harry," she choked. "I'll do anything for you. Anything."

She crawled into his lap then, needing to be as close to him as possible. He gave a grunt of surprise at her boldness, and then eagerly hoisted her into position, pressing her tightly into him. Her curves fit the contours of his lean frame perfectly, and she melted into his body with a sigh, feeling her very bones relax around him. Resting her head on his chest, she listened to the steady, reassuring thud of his heartbeat with a whimper of satisfaction.

And as she curled into him, she swore a silent oath. I promise, if it takes me every day for the rest of my life, I'll battle those demons for your soul, Harry. And I'll win, too. Somehow, I'll get you to acknowledge the truth, to see yourself for the good and noble man that you are. Because giving up is not an option.

At that, she allowed a small, secret smile to flit over her lips. God help the sorry man who crosses an Irish lass when her mind's made up, she warned him in her head. It's like squeezing blood from a stone: impossible to do, and useless to try.

Her musings were cut short by Harry's soft entreaty. "Corrine... will you stay here with me tonight?" She lifted her head from his chest and looked up at him, stunned. He seemed apologetic, almost embarrassed, at the request, but continued nonetheless. "I don't want to be separated from you now, not again..." He closed his eyes, as if in pain. "Please... I'll sleep on the settee, I just need to know that you're here with me."

Her heart leaped at his words. There wasn't anything she wouldn't do for him, of course, and she would have happily granted any request... but the thought of spending more time with him - in his private hotel room, and all night, at that - made her overjoyed beyond measure. "Of course, Harry," she whispered, caressing his face. "As long as you want me, I'll be here for you."

He heaved a huge sigh of relief in response. She settled back against him, and he wrapped his arms around her again contentedly, pulling her tightly to him.

Neither of them moved for some time, lost in their own thoughts. But despite basking in the joy and peace of their reunion, his offer to let her sleep in the bed while he slept on the settee began to niggle at the back of her mind. After all, he had just told her he loved her... and he had asked her to stay with him... so that should mean that they were free to be physically intimate, right? Any objections he had prior to this should be mitigated; there should be nothing holding them back now. And yet... he hadn't mentioned that, hadn't even hinted at it, and the omission, his reluctance, worried her. She decided resolutely that there was no better time to address it directly than right then. In for a penny...

"Harry?" she said hesitantly.

"Hmmmm?" His eyes were closed, his head tilted back; he seemed so relaxed that she almost held her tongue. Almost.

"I have a favor to ask as well." She paused, suddenly timid.

He opened his eyes and waited.

She sat upright and looked at him squarely. "That you not refuse me tonight." She meant it to come out strong and authoritative, but instead it sounded soft and pleading to her ears.

"Refuse you... what?" he said, suddenly alert.

She took a deep breath. Why was this so hard for her to articulate? "I want... I want you to make love to me, Harry." She blushed and looked away for a minute; her bald statement felt like a demand, an imposition. But when she dared to glance back at him, he was just staring at her dumbly. She plunged ahead anyway; might as well get it all out at once. "Because I love you, and I want you. And I know I don't have any experience, and I might not be very good..."

"Corrine-" he protested, dismayed, reaching for her, but she continued undeterred.

"-but... you can teach me, right?" She said it imploringly, practically begging now, and she hated the way she sounded... but she had to persuade him, had to convince him of how important it was to her. She played her final card. "I can tell you're a man of strong... appetites, as well. So I want you to know that whatever you want, whenever you want it... now, and in the future, I am yours. I'll never refuse you, Harry. I promise." She stated it simply, but her heart was pounding with trepidation.

He closed his eyes. "Dear God, Corrine, don't say such things to me," he said unsteadily. "It's enough to bring a man to his knees."

Now what was that supposed to mean? She noticed that he hadn't given her either a yes or a no, and his avoidance of her offer was startling to unsettle her. She still hadn't heard what she needed to hear from him: that he wanted her, too. She had laid bare her own desires, to her mortification, and here he was, dancing around a direct answer. She waited until he opened his eyes again, then looked straight at him, forcing him to acknowledge her. "Well, Harry?"

He swallowed audibly, his throat bobbing. "Yes, Corrine. I can't say no to you. God help me."

Not exactly the enthusiastic affirmation she was hoping for - and now she was starting to feel hurt and exasperated. "Seemed easy enough for you to say no the other times." She said it as nonchalantly as possible, but the pain of the rejection she still felt throbbed in her words.

He snorted and gaped at her. "You think that was easy, do you?" he asked incredulously. "Corrine, it took everything in my power not to..." He blushed. "Well. Let's just leave it at that."

Leave it at that? What happened to the old Harry, who always said exactly what he was thinking, without holding back? Why was he censoring himself? Suddenly, she realized that she had had quite enough of his polite words, his polite refusals. "Why are you trying to act like such a... a gentleman with me, Harry?" she demanded, irritation edging her tone.

"Because I don't want to hurt you any more than I already have!" he snapped, losing his patience. At the sight of her round eyes, he calmed himself. "I caused enough damage with my words... I don't want to hurt you... physically, too." He ran his hand through his hair again.

Comprehension dawned on her then. His fear of losing control wasn't about himself - it was about her. Her anger dissipated suddenly in a flood of understanding and compassion. "I won't break, Harry," she reassured him softly, taking his hand in hers. "Even if you're... vigorous... with me."

He blushed again, then said hastily, "It's not just that. This... making love... it's going to be something special, Corrine. I can't explain it until we've experienced it, but there's no going back for us after that." He paused. "It's why I've been... delaying. I knew what it would mean, to both of us... and I wanted everything to be perfect when it happened."

Relief rushed through her. He hadn't been rejecting her; he had been protecting her. He had had opportunities to take her in less than ideal circumstances, and he had held himself back for her sake, wanting their first time to be memorable... unforgettable. More than anything else he had said and done tonight, it spoke of his love for her. Her heart - and her frustration - melted at once. "Oh, Harry - it will be perfect, if it's with you," she reassured him, eyes glowing with conviction and adoration.

The corner of his mouth quirked up as he gazed at her, incredulity and gratification evident in equal measure. "How did I ever get so lucky?" he mused, as if to himself. Then his expression turned serious. "But I don't want... I mean, please don't think you have to do this for my sake. I'll be all right waiting... honest, Corrine." His eyes shone with sincerity. "I'd wait forever for you."

She shook her head firmly. "I don't want to wait any longer, Harry. One thing I learned from the disaster is that tomorrow isn't promised to us. We have to make the most of today, right now. You're the man I love - the only man I'll ever love. I won't have any regrets."

Harry nodded slowly, eyes never leaving hers. "As you wish, Corrine," he said, pronouncing it solemnly, like a promise... like a vow.

He stood, took her hand, and led her to the bedroom.

* * *

I had to throw in a 'Princess Bride' homage ;)

Song inspiration: Beneath Your Beautiful - Labrinth


	42. Chapter 33: Love

I'm back! Sorry I was off for a few... I had some things to work through, but I think I've got it all figured out now. Thank you for all of your support on the last chapter, and throughout the course of this entire story - if you're still reading after all this time, know that I am honored beyond belief.

Well, enough faffing around: in this chapter, Harry finally initiates Corrine into the art of love. I think you all know what's coming (ha ha)... anyone not of age or uncomfortable with reading extended sex scenes, this might be a good time to exit the room ;)

* * *

Corrine followed Harry into the bedroom, which was almost entirely taken up by a four-poster bed made of carved dark wood. The bed coverings looked luxurious - nicer and more expensive than any she had slept on before, surely. And it was large... definitely big enough for two, she thought. Soon, she knew, she would be naked in that bed, with the man she loved. The thought was both thrilling and intimidating.

She stopped, suddenly hesitant and unsure.

"What now, Harry? Should I just... take my clothes off, then, and lie down?"

He turned then and looked at her closely, sensing her trepidation. "Well, yes, my darling girl, that is a part of it, but it's not quite as... mechanical as all that," he said gently. He hesitated, then said, "I think I can say, without fear of contradiction, that you've never been physical with a man before, right, Corrine?"

"No... well, you came close a few times." She blushed.

"Right. I remember," he said, grinning to relax her and lighten the mood a bit. "Well, there's an art to it, I guess you could say. We don't just... have at it - at least, not the first time. I have to prepare you, make your body ready for me."

Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, and her blood suddenly heated. She had an idea of what that might entail, and it sounded like it would feel... exquisite.

"Show me, then," she purred sensuously.

"First, the clothes; then, we play," he teased, but his voice was suddenly uneven with desire. "I can help you get undressed, if you want, but I'd rather... watch." The last word came out in a sort of strangled rasp, and he swallowed hard.

She eyed him closely. From the look of his trousers, he was already aroused... but then again, so was she. Just the conversation, the anticipation, had made her wet... how much more ready could she be? Oh, she couldn't wait to find out.

She nodded silently in assent, and his eyes flared with sudden heat. Slowly, she began removing her clothes, while he sat on the edge of the bed, watching her every move with keen, greedy eyes. It was awkward at first, feeling his gaze on her, but she relaxed a bit once she realized how very much he was enjoying the view. He reached down once to soothe himself, and the titillating sight brought a little whimper to her lips. After that, she dispensed as quickly as she could with her many layers, freeing her hair from its pins at the same time. Finally, the last piece of material covering her fell to the floor, and she stepped out of it. She suddenly felt very exposed - and very shy. She had never been nude in front of anyone before, and she had an almost irresistible urge to cover her breasts with her hands. She stared down at the floor, face flushed; she couldn't look him in the eyes. What if he didn't like her body? What if it wasn't the shape he preferred? What if-

"Oh, Corrine, you're breathtaking," he whispered. She heard him stand and walk to her, but she still couldn't look at him. He tilted her head up to meet his eyes. They burned with a combination of desire, tenderness, and adoration. "You are the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." He stroked her cheek with his hand and planted a soft kiss on her lips.

Relief coursed through her; his words were like a balm to her soul - as if he knew exactly what she had needed to hear. She reached for him, but he stepped back, away from her, and began removing his own clothing. He undid the remaining buttons on his shirt and tugged it off, discarding it casually in the corner of the room. Then he unbuttoned his trousers and slid them down his slim hips, tossing them in the corner as well. Only his drawers remained, and she stared hungrily at his nearly naked body. He was lean, hard, and muscular, with a chiseled chest and a washboard stomach that had a smattering of dark hair leading below his waistline. She felt her skin flush and her nipples harden at the sight. He had been watching her closely, and when he saw that he raised his eyebrows and acknowledged her physical reaction with an appreciative smile.

He grabbed the waistband of his drawers and pulled them down, and his cock sprung free at last, erect and dripping. A tremor ran through her body at the sight. It was... bigger than she thought it would be. For a moment, she felt apprehensive. How was she supposed to fit that entire thing inside of her? Tentatively, she reached out a hand to touch him. It was rock-hard, yet... smooth, the skin soft. It twitched under her gentle caress, and she moved closer, wanting to grasp the whole thing in her hand.

He closed his eyes and drew in a sharp breath, taking a step back. "Don't, Corrine," he warned her in a low voice. "You're going to unman me before we even begin."

"But I want to feel-"

"There'll be plenty of time for that later," he growled. He was devouring her with his eyes, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He took her hand and led her to the bed, pulling the covers back and then lying down beside her.

He tangled his hands in her long hair and kissed her deeply, groaning into her mouth as her arms wrapped around his body, her hands caressing his back. She pulled him closer, needing to feel his body on hers. He leaned over her, the brush of his bare skin against her own sending goosebumps and tingles from her head to her feet.

He let his hands rove freely over her body as they kissed, first grazing her waist, then caressing her hips, and finally gripping her thighs in his hands. Slowly, deliberately, he let his hands slide upward until they brushed the sides of her breasts. At her breathless nod of encouragement, he shifted his weight onto his hip, allowing himself better access, and drew his finger in lazy circles around them, watching her nipples pucker with rapt fascination. She arched into him in a silent request for more, and he responded by cupping her soft, full mounds, squeezing them gently while he grazed his thumbs over the taut rosy nubs. His rough hands on her smooth skin had sent her whole body trembling and sizzling with need; she moaned loudly, yearning for more, not wanting him to stop, and he obliged, toying with her nipples, caressing her breasts, and admiring her uninhibited and passionate reaction to the stimulation.

She was utterly shameless now, craving his mouth and hands everywhere on her. But he wanted to take his time, and he made her wait as he kissed her some more, prolonging and increasing the tension between them with his flicking, probing tongue. Finally, she could wait no longer. Boldly, she took his hand and guided it to the spot between her legs, spreading wide for him in silent invitation to stroke and caress.

At the first brush of his fingertips, she hissed. No one had ever touched her there before; it felt so intimate, so personal - and so divine. He drew back a little to gaze into her eyes. "You're so wet, Corrine," he said in awe. She whimpered and her eyes fluttered closed as he continued to gently trace his finger around her opening.

Tentatively, he slid one long finger inside of her. She gasped but did not tense up, so he slowly moved his finger in and out, letting her get used to the feeling, the movement. Then he rubbed that sensitive, swollen area right above her opening, and she thrashed wildly. It felt like an electric current had coursed through her body, and she thrust her hips up, craving the feeling, needing more. He alternated between rubbing and stroking, and she felt her body open like a flower to him.

He devoured her mouth with his, still touching her between her legs. Little gasps and moans escaped her lips at the shocks of pleasure that pulsed through her. She felt his hardness pressed hot against her thigh, tried to reach down to touch him again, but he grabbed her hand by the wrist and held it above her head. He pinned her other hand next to the first, and with her arms thus immobilized, he traced a wet trail down her neck with his mouth.

He paused to gaze at her breasts, and she moaned in anticipation, sensing his intent. He kissed each erect nipple with his soft, wet lips, then took one in his mouth and sucked gently. She gasped as another current erupted in her body, this time from her nipple to the throbbing area between her thighs. He moved from one to the other, now circling with his tongue and sucking, harder this time. Oh, she was going to lose her mind. Her body squirmed, craving contact, friction... anything to relieve the ache. But with her arms trapped, she was helpless, at his mercy - and it only increased her mad desire for him. He continued to tease her breasts, sucking and licking, until she panted, "I need you, Harry... please..."

He gazed down at her, as if to assure himself that she was ready, then he released her wrists and positioned his body between her legs, supporting himself with his arms. She arched her back as he covered her body with his and resumed kissing her hungrily, urgently. He rubbed the tip of himself against her, and she felt herself opening further. Gasping, she pushed her hips up toward him, silently pleading for more. But he held back, reaching down to play with her again, fondling and teasing until she writhed under his hand.

Her body flushed, her eyes burning, she grabbed his face. "Now, Harry. I'm ready. Please."

He ran his thumb along her cheek while his other hand continued petting her gently between her legs. "Darling, it'll be less painful if I can give you-"

She put a finger to his lips to silence his words. "Please, Harry. I can't wait any longer. I want your..." She blushed, unable to say the word, but her meaning was perfectly clear. She gazed up at him beseechingly. "Please," she whimpered again.

A flicker of apprehension crossed his face as he stared intently into her eyes. "This is going to hurt a bit."

"I know. I don't care. Harry... I'm begging you..."

At that, the last of his resistance crumbled. Needing no further encouragement, he spread some of the wetness from her body on his cock and guided himself to her opening. She lifted her hips, her eyes locked on his, and he slowly pushed against her, parting her folds, and slipped inside at last.

Her body reacted immediately, clamping down around him, and she gasped in surprise at both the alien feel of him and her own unexpected response. He kissed her until she relaxed her muscles a bit, then nudged himself in a little further. She felt pressure, a little resistance, a sharp surge of pain - and then it was over. She was suddenly... full, and uncomfortably so. She sucked in a ragged breath and waited for her body to adjust to this new experience.

"Relax, Corrine," he whispered, caressing her face and kissing her gently. "I'm going to go really slow, all right?"

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. He inched forward, slowly, ever so slowly, gradually stretching and filling her until he was fully sheathed at last, all the while showering her with kisses to take her mind off of the pain.

Once he was in he paused for a minute, which gave her a much-needed chance to compose herself. She thought she had been prepared for this, but it was more intense than she had expected. Her tender flesh had been abraded when he penetrated her, and she had to take shallow breaths to alleviate the burning sensation. She tried to relax as he had suggested, but it was easier said than done. To her inexperienced body he felt enormous, and her core throbbed with the unfamiliar pressure. Not wanting to upset him, she hid a wince as her body instinctively tensed around this intrusion.

Fortunately, he was too preoccupied to notice. When he felt her taut muscles grip him, he closed his eyes and inhaled sharply. "Oh, fuck, Corrine, you're so tight," he moaned. His body trembled with the effort of holding himself back.

She clung to his neck, willing her body to loosen its hold on him, to take him all in. Eventually her insides obeyed, and once she stopped resisting him, she noticed the discomfort ease almost immediately. It still hurt, she conceded, but not unbearably so.

Harry had waited patiently, and when he sensed the slight slackening of her inner walls, he nuzzled his nose against hers, relief pooling in his brown eyes. "Better?" he asked in a gentle voice. When she nodded, he breathed an ardent sigh and dove in for another kiss. But his lips soon betrayed his pent-up fervor; they prodded her insistently, a reminder of his tenuous restraint. He pulled back and studied her, his expression deferential, almost apologetic. "Can you bear it if I... move?" he pleaded hoarsely.

She pushed down a flutter of apprehension. She was still feeling rather unpleasantly overstretched, although the stinging had fortunately receded to a dull ache. But in spite of the pain, she wanted to please him more than anything in the world. She reached up to pull his head down to hers. "Yes," she breathed, and kissed him.

Slowly, with great care, he began to slide in and out of her body. At first, the movement was uncomfortable... but it was a delicious discomfort, a mingling of pleasure and pain. She found that even though her insides still felt raw, the lubrication from their arousal helped him to move without too much friction. Little by little, she began to relax, savoring the feeling of his body inside hers, the stimulation of areas that had been awakened for the first time. And that sensation of being overfull lessened as her body widened and spread to make room for him. In fact, the gentle rubbing became quite enjoyable, and she stopped wishing he were just a little bit smaller when his motions sent a new set of electric currents surging through her.

Harry, on the other hand, was visibly losing control. He tried to slow his already languid rhythm, pulling himself out of her partway and breathing heavily. "Fuck," he gasped, as his body shook, "I can't- You feel so fucking good, Corrine." She silenced him with a kiss, and he groaned helplessly in her mouth as he slid back inside of her. She felt his strokes change, becoming more irregular, still gentle yet urgent. His breath was coming in a series of hitching gasps, punctuated by moans and curses as he strained, trying in vain to hold back his onrushing climax.

He soon lost the battle for control of his body. "Oh, shit," he moaned, "I'm going to-" He couldn't finish the sentence; his eyes closed and he groaned. She felt him change inside of her then, felt his cock tense and then quake and convulse deep in her body. With a last mingled cry of anguish and ecstasy, he collapsed on top of her.

Corrine held him, wrapping her limbs around his torso as he continued to shudder and gasp at the force of his release. As she stroked his hair and dotted little kisses onto his shoulder, she wondered at the power of the thing they had just done together, this act that had caused him such joy and satisfaction. She had witnessed the height of her man's pleasure - no, she had caused it - and the realization made her feel both flattered and inordinately proud.

Finally, he raised his head to look at her, and she was surprised to see disappointment etching his features. "I'm sorry, Corrine. That shouldn't have ended so quickly. But it's... been awhile." He blushed. "And you were so..." He struggled to find the word.

"Tight? Wet?" she helpfully supplied.

He snorted. "Receptive," he confirmed, kissing her swollen lips gently. "I'll last longer with more practice, I promise."

And with that admission, the last of the insecurities she was still harboring instantly melted away. Sharing such an intimate, sacred experience with him had lifted a great weight from her chest, one that she had borne ever since she learned of his prior indiscretions. But it was the knowledge that he too had vulnerabilities and weaknesses - and had exposed them to her shamelessly - that had truly set her free. They were not so different after all, the two of them.

She felt so close to him in that moment that she could almost reach out and touch the connection that had been forged between them. The feeling of being one heart, one soul, with him shook her to her core, completely overwhelming her. Inexplicably, she felt tears pricking the corners of her eyes. She opened her mouth to tell him how she felt - and burst into loud, ugly sobs that shook her entire body. It was as if the joining of their bodies and hearts had finally shattered the dam holding back her emotions since she had awakened on the Carpathia. The joy and beauty of their lovemaking intermingled with darker, more painful memories of her terror during the sinking, her loneliness, her fear of losing him, and the heartbreaking sadness of their separation. She had never let herself acknowledge those feelings, desperately suppressing them so that she could continue functioning. But now she released all of it, letting it flow out of her in a healing tide of tears and wailing that drained her utterly.

Without having to be told, Harry understood everything. Wordlessly, he pulled her to him, and she lay cradled in his arms, her hot tears soaking his chest. Gradually, her sobs subsided to hitching breaths, and then to little whimpers. Finally, exhausted, cleansed at last, she fell into a deep, restful sleep.

* * *

And there it is! I tried to handle the love scene as sensitively and accurately as possible, and I hope no one was offended. I don't write smut for smut's sake, or to be titillating or gratuitously graphic. No, there's always a larger purpose. And I do think that the physical aspect of Harry and Corrine's relationship is an essential component of their character development. It's through these intimate moments that I can convey the evolution of their feelings for one another, and tell aspects of them that I feel would be impossible to convey otherwise. And... this may not be the last you see of these two making love, just so you're forewarned :)

We're all just gonna ignore Harry's little white lie of it having 'been awhile', given what we now know from the interludes. To give him the benefit of the doubt, I suppose it could be a matter of opinion whether a few weeks has really 'been awhile'. But really he says that for two reasons: 1) to once again spare her the details of his sex life before her - especially his most recent encounters - and 2) to cover up the fact that he finished so quickly. Because although he's 'been with other women' (his words), he's never made love before. Which is why he failed miserably his first time - and tells a little fib to cover his insecurity ;)


	43. Chapter 34: Pampering

Well, my dear readers, we are nearing the end of this tale. After this chapter, there will be only four more, followed by a few epilogues and a postscript. I can't believe that you all have come this far on the journey with me - it has been an honor to hear from so many of you these past few months! If you have read, commented, liked, or followed this story, all I can say is THANK YOU, from the bottom of my heart.

I'm glad you all weren't put off by the love scene last week; I wasn't sure what to expect, haha. This chapter is relatively tame, though ;)

* * *

Corrine woke some time later to find Harry watching her.

"How do you feel, my darling?" he murmured in her ear.

She stretched luxuriously, then winced slightly as she felt an aching in places she had never ached before. "A little sore," she admitted, blushing.

"We can try and fix that," he said with a lopsided grin. "But how about here?" He touched her heart.

She knew what he meant. "I feel... refreshed. At peace." She smiled up at him. "Hopelessly in love."

He brushed the hair from her face and kissed her forehead, her cheeks, the tip of her nose, then pulled back and gazed down at her. "And I am madly in love with you." He grinned. "We're quite the pair, aren't we?"

Unable to speak, she just nodded. The brush of his lips against her skin had caused the blood to rush to all her sensitive areas again, and her body thrummed with the remembered echoes of their earlier intimacy.

He noted the change in her expression and quirked an eyebrow, reading her mind. "Oh no you don't, you greedy girl. You need to satisfy... other needs first." He sat up, suddenly businesslike, and wagged a finger at her.

"Like what?" she asked, trying to distract herself from her naughty thoughts.

"Well, I thought a bath might help soothe your... sore bits." A look of shame flitted across his features, and he said apologetically, "I'm sorry if I hurt you, Corrine..."

"Don't you dare, Harry Lowe," she admonished him. "I asked for it - and I got exactly what I wanted, didn't I?" She winked and grinned at him, and his shoulders relaxed a bit. "Fine, then, a bath it is." But only if you join me, she thought wickedly. "Anything else?"

He gestured to her body, lying exposed on the bed. "And you're gorgeous, but you're wasting away. You need to eat. So I've taken the liberty of ordering food up to the room."

She giggled. "From the restaurant? Whatever will Mr. Chaffee say when he finds out he's feeding one of the employees from his own restaurant - in a guest's room?"

"He won't know," he assured her. "I'm claiming it's for me - and the bill is courtesy of the American taxpayers." He grinned smugly. "So eat up, my darling. If those bastards are going to hold me against my will, it's going to cost them dearly."

She laughed again and was about to get up when his cheeky comment reminded her of something. "Speaking of," she said, raising up on her elbow, "You curse pretty emphatically when you're making love, you know."

"I- I do? Really?" he said, flustered. "I didn't know that," he mused, as if to himself. "I'm sorry-" he began, looking contrite, but Corrine interrupted.

"Don't be," she said. "I find it charming... and, well, er, very sensual." Her voice had dropped, low and husky, on the last few words.

"You mean... you were aroused by... my filthy language?" he asked incredulously, an amused glint coming into his eye.

"Yes," she whispered, gazing back at him intently, heart pounding suddenly.

This time, the invitation in her eyes was unavoidable. He hesitated, and then reached out to stroke her cheek.

"Eat first, Corrine, and have a nice soak, and then we'll see." At her look of embarrassment and disappointment, he hastened to reassure her. "I'm not rejecting you." He kissed her gently. "I'm taking care of you. Please, let me care for you."

She nodded, conceding at last, and he smiled gratefully. As he rose from the bed, she sat up, wrapping the sheet around her body. She nearly swooned as she watched him pull his trousers on. My, his body was... perfect. She could stare at him all day.

Or stay in bed with him all day. She was taken aback by the fierceness of her need, but she couldn't help it - becoming one with him had awakened an insatiable hunger for his body that she wasn't sure she could ever quench. The first few minutes may have been uncomfortable, but oh, the kissing, the touching... and the feeling of having him inside of her... she was dying to give it another go as soon as possible. If he had let her, she would have dragged him back to bed immediately and made him do it all over again.

She blushed at her fevered thoughts, at the lurid images in her brain. Was she supposed to feel this way? Would Harry think less of her if he knew? A sudden knock at the door in the sitting room made her jump guiltily, sure that someone had read her mind and come to reprimand her, before she remembered that it was probably the room service he ordered. Sure enough, she heard Harry thank and tip the man, and then close the door. Chiding herself for her ridiculous notions, she resolved to put away her feelings of self-reproach, at least for the present. For now, she wanted to make the most of her time with Harry.

While he was laying out the food on the table in the other room, she hunted around for her clothes, and decided with a shrug not to bother. She emerged from the bedroom with the sheet still wound around her, and he snorted at her modesty, but let her be.

As he bustled around the table, he said over his shoulder, "I have to warn you, Corrine - the food in America is rubbish. I feel like I haven't had a proper meal since-"

"Since the night of the sinking?" she prompted gently.

He turned around and nodded, his face growing serious.

Her heart suddenly felt heavy as she once again thought of everything that had been lost that fateful night. "So much has changed, Harry," she said softly, "including us."

He walked slowly toward her, reaching out to take her hands in his. "We'll never be the same people we once were, Corrine. But we'll find our way through this to the other side. I promise. We can do anything, as long as we are one."

He pulled her to him then, and as she stood in the circle of his arms, feeling the comfort of his assurances wash over her, she believed that anything was possible.

* * *

She disagreed with him about the food. It tasted delicious, and she demolished everything on her plate. She was reaching for seconds when Harry looked quizzically at her. "And when was the last time you ate any solid food at all, Corrine?"

"Not sure." She swallowed a mouthful and deliberated. "Maybe on the Carpathia? No, I think it was on Titanic..."

An expression of guilt flickered over his face. "More, then," he urged, and then smiled devilishly. "You'll need your strength for what I have planned for you."

She grinned back. "That had better be a promise, Mr. Lowe - because I plan to spend all night showing you how much I love you."

He whistled. "My darling, you're going to be the death of me," he said, the awe in his voice suggesting that said he wouldn't mind that at all.

She smiled in commiseration. He had no idea how many times she had thought the same about him.

But the smile died on her lips as she glanced over and saw that a newspaper had been delivered with the meal. She read the headline - 'Hearers Weep as Titanic Officer Tells Story of Needless Loss of Life,' the Washington Times blared - and her heart gave a sudden lurch.

"Harry?" she asked tentatively.

"Mmmm?" he said around a mouthful of food. Despite his protestations about the quality, he had no problem tucking in, she noted.

"Has it been difficult for you... to sit through the inquiry?"

He laid his fork down carefully, his appetite vanishing at once. "Yes." A pause. "Every day I hear a new witness' story, a new angle, new information - and I have to relive it all over again. And the man chairing the hearings, Senator Smith, is dead from the neck up." He clenched his jaw, and his eyes went cold. "He made Pitman cry on the stand today."

"That's terrible!" she exclaimed. "Why?"

"Berating him about not going back for survivors. Smith's not only an ignoramus, he's cruel." Harry's eyes were haunted. "He doesn't know what that was like," he said softly. "None of us in the boats will ever forget those sounds - and none of us will be able to forgive ourselves for not doing more. He doesn't need to add insult to injury."

"But Harry, you did go back-" she protested.

"Not soon enough," he said grimly, and she knew with a sinking heart that nothing she could say was ever going to console him. Still, she would not - could not - let that statement go unchallenged.

"For the people you saved, it was enough," she said firmly. Her stern look at him told him that he had better not argue - especially with one of his own survivors. So instead, he resumed the discussion where they had left off.

"Your friend Mr. Lightoller - who needs to learn to mind his own business, by the way - has been busy whitewashing the matter entirely, trying to protect White Star - and his own arse, of course," he said drily.

"I saw that," she said with a smile. He frowned, and she quickly clarified, "I mean, I read it in the papers. And I understand," she said soothingly. "I see it as he's trying to protect his mates, Harry - both living and dead. And all the what-ifs in the world won't change anything now, anyway. It was the lifeboats," she reminded him quietly. "You said so yourself. There just weren't enough for everyone."

"There was more to it than that, Corrine," he said, looking away and sighing. He ran a hand through his hair and finally said, "We were careless, all of us officers. We treated the ice messages so casually. And we were going too fast for the conditions. We should have been more cautious - we should have known better."

"Don't you dare blame yourself, Harry," she said, so vehemently that he looked up at her with surprise. "There is nothing you could have done differently," she emphasized. You weren't steering that ship; you weren't the officer of the watch; you weren't the captain." She paused to make sure that she had his complete attention, and then said softly, "None of this was your fault."

And it was the truth. She knew it, but she needed him to hear it, to believe it. His guilt, if left to fester, might eventually be his undoing... and the thought of him living with that pain as it slowly ate away his insides was unbearable.

He was looking at her strangely, as if the thought had never occurred to him before. She saw his expression change from skeptical to contemplative, and then gradually to a pathetic sort of hope, a desperate eagerness to believe that tugged at her heartstrings. This last was followed by look of profound gratitude; his eyes practically glowed with it as he gazed at her across the table. He reached out and took her hand, unable to speak for a minute.

She almost sagged with relief at his reaction. She knew it wouldn't be the last time they had this conversation... but she would be there for him, now and in the future, to offer him the absolution he desperately needed. And she allowed herself a glimmer of hope that he might be able to forgive himself someday as well.

"Thank you, Corrine, for always believing I'm a better man than I am," he murmured finally, stroking her fingers with his own. "And maybe... maybe you're right. Maybe everything was against us that night."

He played with her hand as they both pondered the extraordinary set of circumstances that led to the disaster. From what she had read and knew, though, she didn't think that the accident had been inevitable. Corrine's inclination was to blame the captain's negligence, but she would never tell Harry that - it might sound blasphemous to a ship's officer. If he wanted to believe that fate caused the accident, let him; it was better than blaming himself. But one thought still bothered her.

"Do... do you think they're going to try and pin the collision on Mr. Murdoch?" The idea troubled her greatly; she hated the thought of that selfless man's legacy being tarnished.

"I hope not," said Harry firmly. "Certainly I find no fault in what he did. I would've given the exact same orders myself, and I'll tell them so if they ask."

"Oh, I bet you will," she said with a small smile. She knew Harry; it would be hard for him to rein in his rash and hotheaded nature when challenged.

As if reading her mind, he said, "I have to tread a careful line between honesty and disrespect - but I'll be brutal if that idiot Smith insults me."

"When do you get your say, Harry?"

"I'm due to testify tomorrow, actually."

Her eyes widened; she hadn't known that. "So you're going to let him have it, then - or are you going to try and behave yourself?" she teased. She didn't care if she was egging him on; she was just wanted to see a glimpse of the old Harry again.

"All I can say is that I'll put in a performance worthy of you," he promised solemnly, a hand over his chest - and a mischievous gleam in his eye. She looked at him skeptically - she wasn't quite sure what he meant by that - but he had already turned back to his food, still smirking.

When they had finished, she sat back with a sigh. He was watching her again, his elbow resting on the table and his head propped on his hand, a whimsical smile playing around his mouth.

"What?" she asked.

He just shook his head, and she got up and walked over to him, taking his hand and leading him to the settee. He sat down and she crawled into his lap again, resting her head on his shoulder as she had done before. He played with her hair as she stroked his bare chest with her hand, making little contented noises in her throat. There was no passion in their gestures, just comfort and reassurance, the joy of reconnecting, of a shared love that could no longer be broken.

After a time he eased her off of him and kissed the top of her head. "Now for your bath, you little layabout." She giggled at the jest and he disappeared into the bedroom; a few seconds later she heard the water running in the bath room adjoining the bedroom. She smiled as she heard him moving about in the bedroom, whistling as he presumably tidied up. She could get used to him taking care of her, she thought happily.

She wandered into the small bath room after she heard the water stop. Harry finished arranging the soaps and towels for her bath, and then held out his hand with a flourish, indicating for her to get in.

"You first," she said coyly.

He laughed, his eyes shining with amusement. "Not this time; today is all about you. But I promise you, we will indulge in that pleasure together very soon."

This time, she believed his promises whole-heartedly.

Right before she entered the tub, he reached in to check the temperature, and then drew his hand back with a hiss. "Wait, Corrine - the water is far too hot," he warned her. "I'll just run a little cold-"

But she had already dropped the sheet and was easing into the water. "Nonsense, Harry - as far as I'm concerned, water can never be too hot." Settling back in the tub, she gave a satisfied sigh and closed her eyes.

She missed the way he flinched involuntarily at her offhand words, in an echo of the pain that was never going to leave him entirely.


	44. Chapter 35: Whole-Hearted

Poor little Corrine! As Harry noted, she didn't get much out of her first time, because Harry had ZERO chill. But he makes it up to her, I promise :)

As you might have guessed, this chapter is also rated M.

* * *

Harold unlocked the room and rushed in, flinging his hat and coat on the stand beside the door before hurrying back to the bedroom. He threw the little package on the side table and quickly undressed, lying back down on the bed. He wanted to be there and waiting for his girl when she was finished with her bath; he didn't want her to miss him, or be lonely or scared, even for a second.

Only one thing mattered to him now, and that was her.

While he waited, he had a minute to reflect on the whirlwind of the past few hours. Seeing Corrine in the restaurant that morning had given him the shock of his life; he thought at first that he was hallucinating, that his desperate longing for her had conjured her out of thin air. And then he had seen her face... and knew just how badly he had damaged her. All throughout the inquiry, he couldn't stop thinking about her haunted expression, her dull, spiritless eyes. During the breaks between witnesses, he had paced the hallways, muttering oaths to the reporters and chain-smoking, trying vainly to master his emotions. But there was no controlling the storm of guilt, misery, and anguish that had erupted inside of him, refusing to be quenched. He knew he shouldn't have bolted the proceedings right after Fleet's testimony, but he was incapable of sitting still any longer - and he had to make sure he was back in his room on the remote chance that she might agree to talk with him.

It had been selfish and presumptuous of him to ask her to meet, he knew. Whatever kind of bastard everyone thought he was, he certainly wasn't the type to cause her any additional suffering by his hand, and so he initially hesitated, knowing he had no right to plead his case with her. But whether by contrivance or happy accident, fate had given him a second chance to make it right - and in the end, he couldn't let that chance slip away.

And wonder of all wonders, she had forgiven him; she had taken him back, and given her heart to him... and it was more than he would ever deserve. But he hadn't expected just how complete their reunion would be - and how whole he would feel - until they made love for the first time. Their union was more than physical; it was spiritual, their connection now eternally unbreakable.

He never knew that a simple physical act, one he had done countless times in the past, could change a man irrevocably, remaking him entirely through the sweet alchemy of love.

He glanced over at the small spot of blood on the sheet and frowned. No matter her protestations, he knew it must have hurt when he entered her for the first time. It was the single dark cloud in his otherwise clear blue sky of a heart right now. He glanced over at the side table. At least he could spare her one consequence of his lust, though. He should've been better prepared for this... but before this morning he never even thought that he would see her again, let alone make love to her. Still, he was sure just one time wouldn't matter-

She emerged from the bath room at last with a towel wrapped around her body, her wet hair combed and hanging free... and all coherent thought fled his mind. He stared at her in frank adoration, his heart near to bursting in his chest. This girl was his, all his; he had claimed her body and heart, and in turn, she had left a permanent mark on his soul.

He rose from the tousled bed and gently tugged on the towel. "There's no need for that now, Corrine," he said, his voice not quite steady.

She blushed at her nakedness, but didn't try to cover herself. He looked at her and caught his breath. She was still pink from the hot bathwater, and he let his eyes wander over her body, from her large, soft breasts capped by pert pink nipples, to her tiny waist, her lush and curvaceous hips, delectable thighs... Dear God. He held the towel in front of himself so she didn't see his immediate and throbbing physical reaction to her body. The self-restraint he had been honing for nearly a decade and a half was put to the test every single time he was near her. If she knew how constantly and ferociously he hungered for her, she might flee in fear. He had to make sure he didn't frighten her away with his intensity... he wanted to do right by her, in every possible way.

And he had already cocked it up once, with that goddamn premature orgasm earlier. How embarrassing - to come like he was a fourteen year old boy again, all sloppy and eager. He would have to make it up to her both promptly and thoroughly.

But he wasn't ashamed - not really, anyway. First of all, he couldn't help it; her body had felt incredible, a perfect fit... like she had been made for him. A lock to his key, so to speak. And second... well, he felt safe with her. She knew the real Harold Lowe, flaws and all, and loved him anyway. He could see it now as she looked up at him, big eyes full of trust and endless devotion. No one had ever looked at him that way before, with such unconditional love.

And he was very, very certain no man had ever loved a girl the way he loved his dear, sweet Corrine.

He smiled to himself. Ah, what a ridiculous, romantic fool he'd become. What a besotted prat. And oh, how he loved every second of it.

"How was your bath, my love?" he asked, dropping a messy kiss onto her soft, pretty lips.

She sighed blissfully. "Heavenly." Then she smirked at him - wherever did she learn that? he wondered, amused - and said, "It would've been even better if you had joined me."

He analyzed her playful yet sensual expression closely. She wasn't saying it out of a sense of duty or obligation, or a desire to please him; her body language told him that she really did want him. He wasn't sure why, either. She couldn't have gotten much out of her first time... and yet, she had been giving him smoldering looks ever since she woke up, as if she could barely contain her carnal urges. Could it be that in her he had finally met not only his soulmate, but his physical match as well? Was it possible that she burned for him as much as he did for her? The thought was intoxicating, and between that epiphany and his already aroused state, he had to remind himself to breathe steadily.

As if sensing the change in his heart rate, she stepped closer to him. This time, she pulled the towel from his hand, her playful expression turning penetrating, and he knew she was getting ready to proposition him again. He smiled inwardly. This time... this time he wouldn't resist... and he wouldn't hold back on her, either. As she threw the towel to the side, though, the package on the table caught her eye, diverting her attention. "What's that?" she asked, eyebrow quirking up at him.

So she had noticed already. He had to keep reminding himself how observant she was; nothing got past her. But this was going to be a bit of a tricky conversation.

"While you were in the bath, I went to the pharmacy and picked up some, er, protection."

She looked at him, confused. Oh, she really was naive. He was going to enjoy remedying that.

"Did you use it... before?" She kept her tone very neutral, as if to prove to him that the knowledge of his past didn't bother her anymore.

"Yes. It's a sort of barrier. To prevent, well, accidents." He wasn't sure if his meaning was clear, and he was about to continue when she interrupted him.

"I don't want any more barriers between us, Harry. Ever." She said it slowly, deliberately, staring deep into his eyes all the while.

Did she know what she was agreeing to? Somehow, he thought she did; her eyes no longer held confusion, but instead reflected a profound certainty, a faith in him that left no doubt that she understood the consequences of her choice. Unbidden, an image of Corrine, big with his child, rose in his mind. His throat tightened. His child... his family...

Well, let it be, then. He grinned. "As you wish, my darling," he said for the second time that night, leading her back to the bed.

* * *

At first, they took their time, languidly caressing bare skin and exploring one another's bodies, something they hadn't had time to do earlier in their hurried desire to become one. Some of his frantic desperation had abated, and he was able to better control his physical reactions this time around. He was calmer, more deliberate, and very, very careful with her.

Gradually, slowly, their feather-light kisses intensified from gentle touches of their lips to more exploratory searchings with tongues. She sucked on his lips, and gasped as he bit hers gently. She opened her eyes once to find him watching her while they kissed, his look disbelieving, rapturous.

He allowed her to touch him this time, and she slid her fingers up and down his length, stroking him, eventually growing bold enough to caress the tip with her thumb. Then she grasped hold of him, wrapping her hand around his shaft and moving it gently up and down, testing length, thickness, and hardness in her hand. He gasped and moaned, trembling all over as she played, but he let her explore unimpeded until she had satisfied her curiosity.

Getting to know that part of him made her own body swollen, and with her hands and lips, she let him know that she wanted to feel him inside of her again. She tugged on him, pulling him by his manhood toward her aching body, and kissed him deeply, darting her tongue in and out of his mouth in a simulation of what she needed. Still, he made her wait... caressing her everywhere, playing between her legs, rubbing and kissing her sensitive nipples while she arched her back and writhed under the ministrations of his fingers and lips.

When their kissing and petting reached a fever pitch, and they were both gasping with need, he lay back on the bed. "Corrine," he said between kisses, "I think this time... you should be... on top." She paused and looked quizzically at him. "You'll be better able to control the pace, the depth... it's good for when you're a little sore."

Hesitantly, she nodded. He lifted her, showing her how to straddle him. Blushing, she reached down to grab hold of him and guide him into her opening. It felt strange for her to take control, but from his moan and the way his eyes drifted into the back of his head when she touched him, it seemed that he was enjoying it thoroughly.

She slid just the tip of him into her - she was so slippery - and saw his fists clench in the sheets, as if to prevent himself from grabbing her hips and plunging into her body. She took in a little more, and now it began to hurt a bit - her torn flesh was still tender, and her body reacted accordingly, tightening around him. He quickly opened his eyes when he felt her reaction. "Take your time, Corrine," he said soothingly, gazing up at her. He reached up and fondled her breasts, and she gasped and leaned into the touch. Slowly she opened to him, adjusting to his girth, and she continued to ease down his shaft until she had engulfed the entire length in her body at last.

She wriggled her hips on his, and his dark eyes turned liquid. "My darling," he purred, "do whatever you want to me, all right?"

Slowly, she began to move, learning the depth and pace of her body. The angle was incredible; it felt like every sensitive part of her insides was in contact with him, and when he reached up to put his hands on her breasts again, she moaned loudly and moved faster to ease the sudden need his touch had awakened. She watched him as she slid up and down his length, and the sight of him beneath her, looking up at her with wonder and ecstasy, filled her with wanton bliss. She surrendered to it, tossing her head back and rolling her hips as the heat pooled between them, and he moaned and dug his fingers into her flesh, unable to restrain himself.

Soon, her body began to ache again, but in a different way. Her body ground on his as she thrust against him, trying to ease the throbbing in her core. She quickened the pace, riding him faster... but she was becoming frustrated at her inexperience, her inability to match the rhythm her body needed. "Harry, I can't..." she whimpered, disheartened. He read the expression on her face, the craving in her eyes. He grabbed her hips and with one swift motion, he flipped them both over on the bed so that she was underneath him.

Their lips collided, and she whimpered again, this time in appreciation. She had needed him to take control, and now she surrendered herself to him entirely, wrapping her legs around his waist, throwing her head back, and moaning in delight as he took her.

He set a slow pace at first, and her body rocked rhythmically as he slid in and out of her. His strokes were rubbing her, teasing her insides... and she felt her body respond, swelling and expanding to further accommodate him. The delicious friction created from his movements soon awakened a new kind of sensation, a building pressure in her center that simultaneously alarmed and thrilled her. She felt exquisitely sensitive, every nerve ending quivering and sparking, while the heat between her legs grew with every thrust. Her hips began moving of their own volition, in time with his own rhythm, pushing him deeper, deeper inside of her, burying him to the hilt.

Now she was full to bursting with him - and still, it wasn't enough. Low, urgent moans rose from her throat as she squirmed against him, urging him on. Her insides were so tight... so tense... it felt like a spring was coiled in her lower belly. She needed... more... something...

"Please," she breathed, and she didn't know what she was asking for, but somehow Harry knew. He increased the tempo, and she clung to him, desperate, as she begged, "More... more... oh please..."

He obliged, although she could feel his own heart racing, his breathing becoming irregular. Oh, she was so swollen... so simultaneously open to him and yet so tight around him... she needed release; her whole body cried out for it. She arched her back, and her erect nipples brushed his chest.

"Ohhh... oh, Harry... oooooohhh..." she moaned, her voice rising to a frantic pitch that ended in a sob of frustration.

"'S all right, Corrine," he soothed hoarsely, his warm breath tickling her ear. He wrapped his hands in the loose hair haloing her head and drove into her harder, faster, and she gasped incoherently as the sharp pangs of pleasure built to an unbearable peak. She gripped his slick back and pressed herself into him, needing to anchor their bodies together. Their foreheads touched, and without slowing his pace, he locked eyes with her, gazing down at her lovingly as he whispered, "Hold onto me real tight now..."

He kissed her then, and the pull of his mouth against hers was the final sensation her body had been waiting for. She felt a tingling feeling, first in her toes, and then spreading like a wave to every other nerve ending of her body. With a final thrust at his hips, a sharp cry, and a rush of fluid, her body convulsed, her inner walls squeezing, pulsing erratically around him, as the world exploded around her. A few seconds later, she felt him curse and shudder inside of her, and knew that he too had reached the apex of his pleasure.

They clung together, gasping, limbs wrapped around one another, as the aftershocks trembled through their bodies. He recovered his senses first, and while she lay still quivering, incapable of movement or coherent thought, he comforted her, pressing lazy kisses to her swollen lips as they floated blissfully back to earth. Gradually, as she emerged from her stupor, she reciprocated, caressing his face and breathlessly whispering "I love you" over and over onto his lips in between kisses.

He eventually withdrew and gathered her to him, wrapping her in his arms. She felt their mingled fluids trickle out of her body and sighed deeply. She had never been so satisfied, and so happy, in her life.

They lay tangled together for some time without speaking, bathed in a peaceful glow. He stroked her hair as she lay her head on his shoulder, tracing the outline of the muscles in his chest. "Was that... supposed to happen?" she finally murmured shyly.

She felt a rumbling laugh in his chest, and she tipped her head up to look in his eyes. "You mean... the end?" he asked. He smirked. "If your lover is any good, then yes."

She reached up to caress his face with her fingertips. "Then you are very, very good," she assured him fervently.

He laughed again and began covering her with kisses. After a time, she broke away, breathless, and asked, her voice low and sensual, "How long until we can do that again?"

* * *

Charles Lightoller was walking past Lowe's door some time later when he thought he heard the sound of murmured voices inside. Odd, he thought. The officers never had visitors on this floor... I wonder if Ismay stopped by to reprimand him?

He listened a few seconds longer, and this time he caught a breathy sigh. What...? He took a step closer to the door. Then he heard the unmistakable sound of Corrine's voice, moaning Lowe's name.

He smiled. It appeared that the bolshie Welsh lad had wasted no time in making things right with his girl, then - and in the best possible way, from the sounds of it. Well, well. Maybe he wouldn't have to beat some sense into his arse after all. He might even end up liking the bloke, if he was truly done hurting that sweet little thing.

But he had to admit, he envied the man as well. He sighed. How he missed Sylvia, he thought longingly, as he continued his lonely trek down the hall to his room.

* * *

Songs: Collide - Howie Day; Come On Get Higher - Matt Nathanson


	45. Chapter 36: Inquiry

Thank you, my readers, for sticking with me... I appreciate that so much! And I am always grateful for the reviews - I can't tell you how much I light up when I see one! Sam, glad to see you back - and we'll see soon if you get your wish; we are in the home stretch of the story, after all ;)

There are more spicy, saucy moments in this chapter - in fact, it's safe to say that there will be a touch of smut in pretty much every remaining chapter - these two characters are very sensual creatures ;)

* * *

The next day, Charles was having his usual early-morning breakfast when Corrine approached his table. She looked around furtively to make sure no one else was watching, then pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Thank you," she whispered in his ear.

His face turned red to the roots of his hair. "What for?" he managed to get out.

"For talking some sense into him," she said.

"How do you know I-"

"I just know," she smiled. She took a small step back, and he studied her. Despite the fact that she couldn't have gotten much sleep the previous night, she was positively radiant, glowing bright as the sun. He had never seen her smile like that before, and it transformed her, turning her already beautiful face ethereal. She blew him another kiss before walking to the next table.

Lucky bastard, he thought, staring after her.

* * *

Albert Chaffee watched his newest hire float around the dining room in bemused admiration. He thought he'd be disappointed when her melancholy air lifted, as it had attracted such notice - and so many sympathetic male gazes. But her abrupt change in mood had somehow made her even more appealing to the male customers. Luckily, she was unaware of their attention, he noted with approval. But he was sure that if she kept flashing that dazzling smile at everyone, she would have numerous marriage proposals - including, if he were reading things right, from half of Titanic's surviving officers.

* * *

Katie blew into the restaurant at noon.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Corr, where were you last night? I've been worried sick ever since you didn't come home-" She stopped, and looked at Corrine closely. "Why, you... you shagged him, didn't you?" she asked slowly, comprehension dawning on her face.

Corrine blushed, smiled, and studied her shoes.

Katie threw her arms around her friend and squealed, attracting the attention of some nearby patrons, who rolled their eyes condescendingly. Katie couldn't care less.

"How do you know?" Corrine asked her.

"I just know," Katie drawled. "I s'pose you'll be staying with him now?" she asked keenly.

"I... I think- I hope so," Corrine said uncertainly.

"I have no doubt, love. He'd be daft to give you up again. He's head over heels for you, Corr - always has been."

* * *

The inquiry continued, much to Corrine's and Harry's delight. He had stopped fighting it altogether; in fact, he welcomed it now, as it allowed them to solidify their reconciliation. They spent every moment that they weren't otherwise occupied with the hearings or work together. As Katie had predicted, Harry insisted that she stay with him night and day, and so for the duration of the inquiry Corrine lived with him in a blissful approximation of married life.

She read the papers every afternoon after her shift, and she noted with a combination of delight, amusement, and pride that Harry's name appeared quite often. He certainly cut a rakish figure at the inquiry. The press was fascinated with him, not only for his blunt, direct, answers and his obvious disdain for protocol, but for his good looks and smart dress. She knew he had a crowd of female admirers in the audience who tittered every time he entered or exited the room. They were particularly vocal during his own testimony, providing a Greek chorus of gasps, cries, and giggles. He acknowledged them with a dashing grin once, but otherwise paid them no mind. As for Corrine, such things no longer bothered her; her insecurities had vanished the moment Harry had declared his love.

Harry's stint as a witness was played for comedy in many of the papers; his swaggering presence and his frequent clashes with Senator Smith livened the procedure, they claimed. There was definitely an undeniable element of theatrics and showmanship to his testimony. It wasn't intentional, though; the reporters didn't realize that what they were seeing was just Harry's usual breezy and impudent nature. But it was so entirely unlike the other officers' precise, careful, controlled responses that it stood out dramatically. In addition, he painted a vibrant picture of the night with his words, his manner of speaking bordering on the poetic.

But it was his memorable retorts to Smith's questions that really caught the country's attention. His sharp responses resembled that of a hostile witness at times, and his animosity towards Smith's accusatory style and his ignorance of the sea was readily apparent. They sparred over loading versus lowering capacity of lifeboats, the opening of the gangway doors, and the superiority of British seamanship. The press gleefully reported his comments about the composition of an iceberg ('Ice', he replied tersely, to uproarious laughter) and his dramatic reenactment of the warning shots fired during the lowering of boat 14, where he instructed Smith on what the word 'horizontal' meant. And Corrine had laughed out loud when she read that Harry had delivered a soliloquy on the difference between a boatman and a sailor: she knew that was meant not just as a diversion, but as a sly nod to their inside joke. At other times, his responses contained a bewildered mangling of the original question that made interpreting his answers difficult. Corrine knew it for what it really was: a failed attempt to hide his deep disdain for the procedure - and Smith. He wasn't trying to deliberately confuse or mislead, nor was he trying to conceal anything; if anything his candor in most respects, especially when he admitted to not knowing something, was refreshing. But those biting comments distracted the public from his true goal: his reluctance to place blame, and to protect the men who could no longer speak for themselves - chiefly, First Officer Murdoch. In that respect, thought Corrine wryly, he wasn't much different from Charles - although she refrained from sharing that sentiment with Harry. Through evasions, clever distractions, and long-winded sidetracks, he managed to skirt the issue of whether Murdoch had loaded the boats under capacity that night. It wasn't as simple as agreeing or disagreeing with the senior officer's decision, he told Corrine later; rather, it was that there were so many factors to consider that one couldn't even begin to understand unless he was in the situation himself - and he didn't wish that upon anyone, not even Smith. The worst part of the whole process, though, at least to Corrine, was the way that Smith had taken Harry to task for not being able to return sooner with his boat and rescue more survivors. Harry already suffered enough about that, and Corrine, who had been quietly supportive of Senator Smith's investigation up until that point, would never forgive him for putting Harry through such a remorseless grilling on the subject.

Stories from the survivors were emerging from that night as well, and Harry's name loomed large in their descriptions. Although a few were critical of him (his language, Miss Minahan said, was so offensive that she thought him intoxicated, an accusation that enraged him for days afterward), most were glowing in their compliments. They spoke of how he protected them from being capsized by 'roughs', tied up their boats together so they would feel less alone, and kept their spirits up throughout their terrifying ordeal. Rene Harris was particularly verbose in her praise, publishing a lengthy account of her experiences in which Officer Lowe featured prominently. The survivors told of his competence, his skill, and his commanding presence that gave hope to all around that a true leader was among them. And of course, they spoke of his returning to the scene of the disaster after the sinking to pluck survivors from the sea. This, most of all, was what fascinated the public. His fixation - his near-obsession - with going back, no matter the cost, was the subject of many editorials and speculations. What drove this man to risk his life for his fellow man, when all the other crewmembers lay on their oars and listened to the tortured sounds of the dying? Interestingly, no survivors came forward to talk about the emotional scene during the rescue of the occupants of Collapsible A. It was as if, by unspoken agreement, the witnesses of that incident had agreed to keep it a private matter between the officer and the young woman, rather than tarnishing it by talking to the press. But everything else about his behavior that night was discussed, analyzed, and applauded ad nauseam. He had captured the attention of the world, and the papers published every account with breathless praise for the young officer's heroism.

But the world didn't see how he suffered.

He slept poorly, if at all. He drank gallons of tea to avoid falling asleep, because then the nightmares would begin. Many times he awoke screaming, sitting bolt upright in bed. Other times he would thrash in his sleep, kicking the covers off and grasping the air beseechingly. He always woke from these incidents in a cold sweat. And most nights, he wept shamelessly in her arms, sometimes for an hour or more. She soothed him as best she could, stroking his hair and cradling him to her breast, as he poured his heart out, berating himself for not paying more attention to the ice warnings, for leaving her on the slanting boat deck, for not being able to save more lives. He was a haunted man, and not even his deep gratitude for their own salvation provided him the deliverance he needed.

The only time he seemed at peace was when they were making love. That was the only solace she could provide - so she employed it every chance she could.

They were insatiable. Some days he would barely get the door closed and locked before she was upon him. One time, she surprised him by pushing him down onto the settee in the sitting room and straddling him. He reached up under her dress and touched bare skin slick with arousal - she had already removed her undergarments. Her body ground against his, and he quickly pulled down his trousers to avoid getting them wet. With one quick movement, he was inside her. That time, they never did make it to the bedroom - or remove their clothes. Another time, she met him at the door entirely nude. He took her bent over the back of the settee, and then on the plush carpet, and finally on top of the small dining table, which rocked precariously in time with his thrusts.

Once, during her shift in the restaurant, he pulled her aside into a nearby broom closet. They tore at each other's clothing frantically in the dark, ripping fabric and popping buttons. He lifted her up in his arms and pushed her roughly up against the wall, pounding into her, stifling her rapturous cries with his mouth. He left with a smirk, adjusting his tie and hat, while she had to sit on the floor for several minutes to quell her trembling legs and piece together her ruined hair and uniform.

They made love for hours at a time, in every conceivable position. As he promised, his stamina did improve... and he was a self-controlled man, waiting, denying his own pleasure for her. As she climaxed over and over again, apologizing profusely for her wanton behavior, he would just grin and tell her that she should have at least three for every one of his, and that his single-minded goal in life was to see that it happened.

Afterward they would often take baths together that would invariably end in more passionate lovemaking. Sometimes he would carry her dripping to the bed, where they would finish; other times, they remained in the tub, the soapy water allowing their bodies to slide smoothly over one another as he entered her.

He taught her many things, but some things they learned together. One night she began tracing a slow path around his neck and collarbone with her lips, kissing her way down his chest and then to his taut stomach. Then she kissed lower, right above the patch of dark, curly hair, and he gasped in shock and grabbed her head.

"Don't stop me," she whispered huskily. "I want to... I want to taste you."

She gently, tentatively, touched him, first with her tongue, then her lips. The feeling sent shudders of pleasure through his entire body, and he groaned loudly. Growing more bold, she slowly engulfed him in her mouth, swirling her tongue and sucking, first slowly and then more insistently. His fists clenched in the sheets as her rhythm intensified, as she went deeper and faster. The sensations of tongue and lips were so intense, so new... it was so intimate, and he was so sensitive... he couldn't help it, couldn't hold back any longer. He felt himself losing control, spilling his seed into her mouth.

He lay there gasping with the aftereffects of his pleasure for some time. After awhile, he pulled her up beside him. His eyes shining with worshipful adoration, he wrapped her in his arms. "My Corrine... my darling..." he crooned into her hair, as she drifted peacefully off to sleep.

The intensity of their affair frightened both of them. But they were helpless to stop, because they knew that the relentless tides of time would soon sweep them away from one another. And so they made the most of every stolen moment, desperately avoiding the past, and dreading the future.

* * *

"Harder," she moaned into the pillow.

He was behind her, sheathed deep inside her body, and she still wanted - needed - more. He sunk his fingers into her hips and pulled her toward him, while simultaneously changing the angle of his own body. Then he waited, dragging out her anticipation.

"Please... please," she panted. She squirmed against him, desperate for movement, for friction.

Harold grinned. He loved it when she begged. She only did it when she was damn near out of her mind with desire, when her need for him overcame her pride.

Steady, old man, he thought. She's almost there.

Finally he obliged, thrusting deep into her while still gripping her hips. His strokes were long and unhurried; he knew he could endure a little while that way, but she wouldn't be able to hold up much longer.

Sure enough, he could feel her begin to tighten around him. Ah, he knew her so well now... every inch of her body, every want and need, every favorite position, every way to arouse, tease, and satisfy her.

And he knew how she liked to finish in this position. He pulled out slightly, delivering a few quick, short swirling strokes near her slick entrance, rubbing her swollen clitoris with the tip of himself, and then followed with deep, penetrative thrusts that filled her fully...

And sure enough, after a few strokes like this, she came, convulsing around him and screaming his name. The feel of her losing control... the satisfaction in knowing that he could please her so well... it pushed him over the edge too. He allowed his own orgasm to wash over him, rendering him insentient for some time.

When he could think again, he looked over to find her lying on her belly, arm stretched above her, head turned toward him.

"That's three times this evening, Miss Donnelly," he said lazily. "Are you going to try for four, or are you going to let a man sleep for once?"

"Hmmm," she said, pretending to think. She propped herself up on her side. "I think I'll leave it up to the man in question - who has just as much difficulty resisting me as I do him."

He laughed. "Well, if we do, you're going to have to learn to be quiet," he admonished teasingly.

She raised an eyebrow. "Why on earth would I want to do that?"

"Because every morning when I walk past my former shipmates in the dining room, I have to hear: 'Mr. Lowe, there are some rather indecent noises coming from your room after hours'. 'You have quite the colorful vocabulary at night, Mr. Lowe'. 'In my day, people tended to be discreet, Mr. Lowe'." The last was delivered in a very good impression of Lightoller's voice.

She giggled. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt to be a little more subtle," she said.

"Honestly, I don't give a damn," he laughed. "I just wanted to see how you would react. But you are utterly shameless, aren't you?" He reached out and tweaked her nose.

She shrugged. "They already know about us; it's not like it's some great secret anymore. Besides, they'd be doing the same with their wives or girls if they had the chance."

He doubted that. He honestly didn't think anyone made love the way the two of them did. Certainly he hadn't before. But he had finally learned to keep his mouth shut when it came to observations like that, so he just nodded in agreement.

"Although I think I may have some competition for your affections," she said coyly. "Half of America is in love with you, you know." She traced the tattoo on his forearm with the tip of her finger.

"What?" he asked, incredulous.

"You don't read the papers, do you?" she teased. "The press adores you, makes a great fuss over everything you say. You're very quotable, you know."

He cocked his head, curious. "I don't know what you're talking about, Corrine."

"Ice, Harry? Really? An iceberg is composed of ice?" she asked, a mischievous gleam in her eyes. "You had to know how that would be received."

He smirked. "That wanker Smith deserved it," he declared. "He doesn't know his arsehole from a porthole."

"And what about the Ismay incident? I can't believe you never told me about that - Harry, you cussed out the managing director of the White Star Line the night of the sinking, for goodness sake! You're lucky you're still employed."

Actually, none of the officers were sure if they were still employed. That would have to wait for the British inquiry. He sighed inwardly, already dreading it. If they took his certificates, he was would instantly lose his livelihood. But he wasn't going to bring that subject up, either. Forcing himself back to topic, he said, "Well, in my defense, at the time I didn't know who he was."

She raised an eyebrow. "Honestly, would that have changed anything?" she asked playfully.

"Probably not," he admitted with a rueful smile. "He was still in my way, and I had a job to do."

Her laugh echoed delightfully through the room. "That's what I thought. You know, he's become a villain to the American people - a scapegoat, if you will, for the entire disaster. And so when it came out that you stood up to him... well, Americans love that sort of thing - they call it moxie, I believe. You've become their new hero."

He sighed, his eyes growing distant. "I'm no hero," he said, flopping on his back.

Instantly, she knew she had said the wrong thing. "I'm sorry, Harry," she said apologetically. "I shouldn't have used that word. I know how you feel about it." She took hold of his face and turned it until he was looking in her eyes once again. "But you are a hero to me," she said, soft and insistent. "And to many others as well, even if you won't acknowledge it."

He sighed again. "People are too generous. I didn't do enough - didn't do anything, really. All I did was look for you - and holler a lot," he admitted.

"One of your many talents," she said, giving him a crooked grin. She snuggled into his arms, and neither spoke for awhile.

Returning to their earlier conversation, he said, "Anyway, I don't give a damn if the recently widowed Mrs. Astor herself begged me to be her new husband. You are the only one for me, Corrine - now and forever."

"And you will always be my one and only," she replied, her voice husky. Then she chuckled. "Even if Mr. Ismay himself propositions me... again."

"What?!" He sat up so suddenly that she nearly rolled off of the bed. He caught her quickly and pulled her toward him. "I think I had better hear this story," he warned. He felt suddenly possessive and very, very angry.

She saw the swift change in his mood and hastened to reassure him. "It was while I was working at my uncle's shop. He showed up there a few times, talked to me... and eventually offered me a... job. But it felt strange - he never said what the job would be, and the way he was looking at me..." She paused for a moment. "I didn't understand at the time, but I think I do now. And I didn't know who he was until I saw him on Titanic, and all the pieces fell together."

Rage rose in his throat, choking his words, and he growled deep in his chest. "That son of a bitch," he spat finally, face white, eyes blazing. "I should-"

"Easy, Harry," she soothed, alarmed as his vehement reaction. "I'm sorry I mentioned it. I should've known it would... upset you. And besides, it hardly matters now. Obviously, he didn't succeed. He clearly wasn't man enough." She grinned wickedly at the implication, trying to distract him.

It worked. Slowly, he relaxed again. "All right, Corrine, but I'll neither forget it, nor forgive him," he said firmly.

"Oh, but Harry you must," she insisted. "He holds your future in his hands, after all."

There it was again, the reminder that neither knew what the future had in store for them. He sighed. Please, Corrine, let me just live in this moment with you, forever...

But she couldn't - wouldn't - let it go. "Harry..." she began hesitantly, looking up at him. "What happens... next? After the inquiry is over, I mean?"

His heart softened. He knew she was desperately seeking reassurance, needing to know that all would be well. And he didn't have any answers for her - but he did know one thing. "I'm not sure," he said contemplatively, staring into the distance as if trying to glimpse their future. He reached out and began idly stroking her nipple with his thumb, feeling it harden under his touch. "But whatever it is, we'll figure it out together."

At the slight hitch in her breathing, and the suppressed noise in her throat, he looked down at her. She was gazing up at him, eyes molten.

And they were off again.

* * *

I wrote the first half of this chapter with a lot of wiggle room for a reason. I wanted to leave ample opportunity to write sexy one-shots of this time period later - and sure enough, several have emerged since I've finished this section. There's more - much more - to the broom closet scene, for example ;)


	46. Chapter 37: Leave-Taking

Of all the chapters I've written, none has twisted my heart into emotional knots quite like this one. I hope it does the same to you, Dear Readers.

* * *

The next morning, Harry told her he was skipping the inquiry altogether. It was a surprising move, as he had attended almost every day of testimony, listening carefully to the accounts of the disaster from both crewmembers and passengers. But today, he said, was just for them.

It was drizzling, as it was when they had first arrived in America nearly two weeks ago, but he wanted to walk the city with her, see some sights like a proper tourist, he said. So he bought a large umbrella, and they ventured out onto the wet streets, creeping down the back stairwell to avoid the lobby and Mr. Chaffee's prying eyes.

The Hotel Continental was strategically placed on North Capitol Street, and its major boast was its proximity to many prominent locations in the nation's capital. From the dining room where Corrine worked, one could look out and see the Capitol building, and other attractions, including the Library of Congress, the Smithsonian Museum, the Washington Monument, and the White House, were within walking distance. Harry was determined to see them all with her - well, almost all of them, he clarified. He would go anywhere but the Senate Office Building - he had seen enough of that, he remarked dryly.

Spring had arrived at last, and the cherry trees, a recent gift from Japan, had just started to lose their blossoms. They lay scattered on the sidewalk, soggy and broken from the tromp of passing shoes, as they set off for their self-guided walking tour of Washington.

Arm in arm, they first sauntered the short distance to the Capitol building, gazing at its domed construction from the outside. Initially hesitant, Harry allowed himself to be persuaded by Corrine's urging to go in and peek at Congress in session, looking down at the floor of the busy chamber from the visitor's gallery. Afterward, they admired the famous fresco in the eye of the Rotunda and the amphitheater-like statuary hall before heading back outside. A short distance away lay the Library of Congress, and they stopped there as well. She became dizzy at the sight of the enormous four-story circular Reading Room, with its soaring dome supported by giant marble pillars, and Harry had to hurriedly escort her to the nearest bench before she swooned all over the marble floor. "It's grander than the Titanic," she gasped, staring awestruck at the endless number of books on the alcoves that lined the room while Harry laughed and fanned her with a pamphlet.

They took their time meandering down the sidewalks and little paths of the National Mall. People hurried by them, intent on some mysterious mission only they understood. It seemed that Washington was a city in constant motion. Southampton had been busy, too, of course; because it was a seafaring town, there were always new people to see, exotic wares from all over the world to purchase. But it had been restricted by a rigid adherence to tradition and discipline. In America, everything seemed so... free. And the people themselves amused, intrigued, and confused Corrine in equal turn. She was convinced they had figured out the secrets of life that the rest of the world still had yet to learn. Everyone in this country seemed to have an uninhibited energy and boldness. Conventions were shunned; there was a sense of throwing off centuries of restraints - and not just by the women she saw on the corner, picketing for the right to vote despite the rain dampening their signs. Everywhere she looked, people looked her straight in the eye, and walked around with their heads high, answerable to no one. There was a swagger and confidence, a feeling of endless possibility in this country that she had never experienced before. In a way, she thought, amused, Americans reminded her a lot of Harry - although she knew better than to tell him so.

On the other side of the Mall, Corrine craned her neck to glimpse the top of the Washington Monument, and Harry leaned over to whisper something very cheeky and wholly improper to her, which made her giggle and blush prettily. From there, they struck off north, to the White House - the one place, Harry said, that he had wanted to see during the entirety of his confinement here. Entering through the East Wing, they wandered through the plush public rooms on the state floor, where the President and First Lady entertained guests. They tiptoed through the East Room, its three giant chandeliers lighting a spacious chamber filled with tomblike silence broken only by the pattering of rain on the windows. And although normally off-limits to visitors, the man stationed at the terrace permitted them entry to the West Wing; the president, he said, was out of town that day. So they had a rare glimpse into the green-lined Oval Office, where that enormous man, Taft, sat and worked - and now, mourned his friend Archie Butt, a Titanic victim.

It was pouring when they once again stepped outside, so they headed for the Smithsonian Museum, which offered another tempting respite from the rain. They poked around the displays and artifacts for some time, finding tantalizing glimpses of history in the glass cases filled with rocks and minerals, textiles, ceramics, and relics from the American Revolution. To Harry's delight, the museum even contained a Boat Hall, and as they perused it he proudly pointed to the models that represented the ships he had sailed on. He was also fascinated with the safari exhibit, which included a group of African lions, as well as other exotic animals like giraffes, rhinoceros, and hippopotami from Roosevelt's expedition several years previous. Corrine hung back from those displays, though; the animals were a little too lifelike for her taste.

In one of the rare breaks between rain squalls, Harry dragged Corrine to the shopping district. At a milliner's store in Market Square, he tried to buy her a stylish black, wide-brimmed hat smothered in tulle and ostrich plumes. The shopkeeper called it a 'merry widow' and assured Harry that it was the height of fashion. Corrine gave the voluminous and gaudily embellished creation a dubious look. "That's very generous of you, Harry," she said sincerely, "but I'm afraid I don't wear hats."

He gave her a look of mock disapproval. "First you shun corsets, now hats."

"Well, I'm not-"

'-a lady," he finished, chuckling. "I know. And I've really come to appreciate that in the last few days." She blushed at the implication, and with a naughty wink he bent over her hand and kissed it with exaggerated courtesy.

Next he tried to purchase a pair of beautiful white elbow-length gloves made of soft supple leather. She politely refused those as well. "You don't need to buy me anything," she told him firmly. "This day has been gift enough." But when they came upon a florist selling roses from the First Lady's colonial garden, she fussed over their beauty with such guileless delight that he promptly asked the clerk for a dozen.

"One, Harry," she protested, laughing. "One is plenty."

He presented it to her with a flourish. "For you, milady. To replace what was lost." His eyes grew suddenly melancholy.

But she quickly corrected him. "Not to replace it. In addition to it. I still have the other one," she said with a soft smile. Sentiment - or perhaps precognition - had made her fish the pink rose out of her pocket at last after she arrived in Washington. Although looking at it had made her soul ache afresh, she couldn't bear to part with it, either, so she had pressed it into a book at the boarding house for safekeeping. And when its brief bloom had ended, this one too would join its mate in preserving the events of these last few weeks forever in their petals, a permanent reminder of triumph over tragedy.

"You kept it," he marveled, his eyes glistening. "I should have known." And then, flouting convention, he proclaimed his delight at the news by sweeping her up in a passionate kiss in full public view.

After walking for much of the afternoon, they were famished. They bought food from a street vendor; it looked like a sausage, but the man had called it a 'hot dog'. "How do you eat one of these things?" Harry mused, as it was presented to him wrapped in a piece of bread, slathered with red sauce. He grimaced. "See what I mean about American food, Corrine?"

She smiled indulgently; she was already greedily wolfing hers down, turning her head sideways the better to take it in. He snickered and wiggled his eyebrows at her suggestively, and she burst out laughing, holding onto his arm for support with one hand and clutching the hot dog for dear life in the other.

As they circled back toward the Continental at last, footsore but contented, Harry turned to her. "Well, did you enjoy yourself today, darling?" he asked, playing with a strand of wavy hair that had freed itself from her bun.

She lifted her face to his. "Oh yes, Harry. I can't imagine a more perfect day," she sighed.

He hesitated. He didn't want to ruin the moment... wanted to stay like this forever... but he knew he had to be truthful. And he had put it off long enough. "I'm glad to hear you say it, because there's something I have to tell you, and you're not going to like it."

She looked at him quizzically.

He took a deep breath. "The American inquiry is ending, and we're being released to go home and face the British Board of Trade. And, if I don't lose my certificates as a result of the inquiry, I have a new assignment immediately afterward - the Australia route again."

She gasped, unable to process this information. So this was why he had insisted on playing truant from the hearings. And he hadn't told her because he didn't want it hanging over their heads like a pall all day. He knew their final moments together were fast approaching, and he had wanted to distract them both - and to give her one last shining memory before he said goodbye.

But what really knocked the wind out of her was hearing that he had been assigned to the Australia run. It meant that she wouldn't see him again for months. And the thought of being separated again for so long after such a short reunion was inconceivable. "Why?" she managed to breathe out at last.

"Ismay wants to get me away for awhile... away from all the lionizing and hero worship," he said, with a trace of bitterness in his voice.

"When... when do you leave, Harry?" she croaked, dreading the answer. Surely it couldn't be-

"Tomorrow."

That solitary word fell like a hammer onto her heart. Her hand fluttered to her mouth, and a little cry escaped her lips. So soon... too soon. "No," she whispered, her voice breaking. "No."

Harry pulled her into his arms, ignoring the crowds pushing past them on the sidewalk, and held her as her tears fell like the rain around them.

* * *

That night, the scent of crushed cherry blossoms wafted through the open window as they made love.

She crawled on top of him - unlike in the beginning, she had become quite confident in this position, having had plenty of practice by then - and eased herself down, wiggling until he was buried to the hilt. She moaned contentedly and closed her eyes, soothed by the feeling of having his body inside of her once again.

"You are a goddess, Corrine," he whispered reverently, gazing up at her. A sudden smile lit his face. "Do you want to see?"

Confused but willing, she nodded, and he shifted them on the mattress. She glanced to her left, and with surprise she saw them reflected in the mirror that hung on the wall opposite the bed. She gazed at her own reflection, straddling him, hips pressed tightly against his. She watched herself rise, and then slide back down on him. She could see his shaft, wet and slick with her arousal, move in and out of her engorged opening. She continued to watch herself in the mirror as she rode him, engulfing him again and again. The act of being both a participant and a voyeur to their lovemaking nearly undid her; a passionate cry tore from her throat, and she threw her head back in ecstasy until her long hair brushed his legs. She moved faster to ease the growing ache, grinding against him, but the sight of her flushed body sliding over his only aroused her more. He stretched out his hand and tickled her swollen nub, and she suddenly contracted, a rush of fluid from her body dousing both of them as she cried out in relief and surrender.

"Not fair," she gasped, after she had finished trembling. "You didn't tell me that would be so... erotic, and now I've finished too soon." She pouted down at him with feigned reproach.

He reached up and grabbed her by the shoulders, then flipped her, pinning her body to the bed in one quick movement. "You think you're finished, do you?" he smirked, looming over her. "My darling, we haven't even begun yet."

In the whirlwind of passion that followed, neither of them once mentioned the upcoming morning, until they both finally collapsed, exhausted and sated, into a deep sleep.

* * *

"No... the boats..." he mumbled.

She woke suddenly. It was pitch black, and the room was cold - so cold; the window had been left open. It must be the wee hours of the morning... likely 2:20, to be exact... and Harry was having another nightmare.

"Corrine...? Corrine, the ship..." he moaned, louder now.

"Harry," she said softly, shaking his shoulder. "Wake up - it's a dream, Harry."

"Gone... where...? Corrine..." Her name was an eerie lament, and she shuddered as a chill crawled up her spine.

"Harry," she pleaded, louder now. "Please, wake up..." She wrapped her arms around him, desperately trying to rouse him back to consciousness, to make the nightmare, the memories, go away.

But his mind was tethered fast to the vivid hallucinations. "No, no... they're dead, all dead..." His voice broke, and she saw with anguish that tears had began to leak from his still-closed eyes.

"Harry, please... I'm here... it's all right-"

Without warning he thrashed, writhing violently, and she had to cling to him with all her might to hold him down. "CORRINE!" he screamed, shattering the stillness of yet another night with his desperate cries for her.

At that moment his eyes snapped open, seeing her for the first time.

He stared at her, his face a mask of horror and grief and fear. Suddenly, he groped for her body, spreading her legs open. He plunged into her, and she wasn't sure if he was even fully lucid as he took her frantically, while tears streaked down his cheeks.

She was helpless against the onslaught. All she could do was hold him, and give him what he needed. Inevitably, her own body responded. It wasn't long until, under his relentless thrusts, her inner walls gripped him, squeezing and convulsing, forcing his own release in turn.

Even afterward, he was still not at peace. "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry..." he sobbed brokenly, and she knew he didn't only mean for what had just happened, but for the damaged parts of himself.

"Shh, Harry... it's all right, everything is all right now," she assured him as she stroked his back, her tears of empathy and sorrow mingling with his. Slowly, by degrees, he quieted, calming at last.

Eventually, he eased himself off of her and shifted her body until she was facing him. His hands traced her, caressing her arms, from her ribcage down to her waist, the swell of her hip, her smooth thighs, back up to her stomach, between her soft breasts, and finally to her face, where his hands lingered. He cupped her cheeks, whispering her name, gazing deeply into her eyes.

She saw his pain from earlier return, and he suddenly swept her up in his arms, cradling her tightly, burying his face in her hair.

"I almost lost you, my love," he choked, and she could feel by the dampness in her hair that he was crying again. "I'll not let it happen ever again. I promise you that," he said fiercely.

Thinking he was still suffering the after-effects of his nightmare, she hastened to reassure him. "Harry, all of that is over now. You don't have to worry about losing me. You saved me, remember?"

He pulled back to look at her, and his puffy eyes were filled with infinite wisdom and tenderness. "No, Corrine. You saved me."

* * *

They watched the sun rise together from the window of his bedroom.

He had wrapped them both in the comforter, and they sat side by side on the edge of the bed, her head on his shoulder, and waited. At first, the change in the sky was so infinitesimal that they were able to delude themselves into thinking it was a trick of the eyes. The heavens were dark purple, littered with stars... but there it was, a slight lightening, the merest hint of pink at the boundary between earth and sky. As they watched, the tiny glimmer spread, deepening to rose gold and throwing a crimson cast onto the underside of the clouds, while the sky lightened until they were able to discern the individual silhouettes of the buildings around them. Then, at last, the sun grazed the horizon, at first a mere sliver gilding the light blue clouds with amber and peach. But as it crept higher, its softness coalesced into a burning ball of brilliant white light, golden rays bursting from the glowing orb in a red and golden gleam that set the sky aflame.

As the sun continued to rise inexorably from its fluffy bed of clouds, bringing them ever closer to the end of their magical but fleeting idyll, Corrine looked up at Harry. "How can it be morning already?" she whispered in despair, her lower lip trembling.

"Don't cry, Corrine," he begged, voice quavering. "I can't bear it if you cry."

She gulped and pressed her face into his chest, hiding from both the pain and the relentless, merciless sun. "I wish we could hold back the daylight, just a little longer," she whimpered, inconsolable.

His chest hitched suddenly, and she raised her head to look at him, sure that she had said the wrong thing and he was about to break down. But instead he took the tip of his finger and gently traced his initials over her heart.

"Remember, Corrine, that no matter where I go, this is where I will always be," he vowed. And for that moment, despite the agony filling his eyes, he seemed at peace.

They dressed in silence. Harry packed the few possessions he had acquired during his time in America. Corrine gathered some things as well: bits of writing, newspapers, a few toiletries she had purchased, some dresses she had brought over from the boarding house, and of course, the rose. She put them into a paper bag that she planned to stash in the restaurant's break room before they left; with Harry leaving, there was no longer any reason to hide her presence in the hotel from Mr. Chaffee.

All too soon, they were ready. Neither wanted breakfast; in her misery, Corrine couldn't imagine putting anything in her stomach. Her heart was a cold dead lump filling the cavity of her chest, and her nose and eyes burned with unshed tears.

Right before they left, she turned back one final time to look at the rooms that had been her home for the past week, the place where she had experienced a happiness she never thought possible, one she felt sure she must have dreamed into existence. Swallowing a sob, she pulled the door closed and followed Harry down the hallway.

* * *

She went with him to Union Station, of course. She had to see him off, even though it would be harder for both of them. Unlike the previous day, the weather was bright and warm, and sunlight poured in through the skylights of the station, mocking the gloomy, dour mood of the couple that made their way through the concourse, dragging their feet reluctantly with each step. The floor rumbled under their feet as trains pulled in and out of the station, belching steam and heat. Mobs of people moving in dozens of directions bumped into one another, and Harry indifferently parted the crowd with one arm while he held onto her tightly with the other. Corrine kept her downcast eyes focused resolutely on the floor as they moved; she was hardly in the mood to exchange pleasantries with strangers.

They slowed as they reached their destination at last. White smoke floated, obscuring the platform where the Congressional Limited waited, and then dissipated, moving in a graceful dance from the ground to the lofty ceiling. When it cleared, Corrine was able to make out four familiar forms.

There was a certain solemnity in the posture of the other three officers who stood shuffling their feet, waiting for the doors of the train cars to open. Although they would be soon returning to their homes and families, their solace was tempered by the looming threat of the the Board of Trade inquiry. Ismay was there, too; he seemed apprehensive, removing his hat and patting his hair, and then smoothing his handsome mustache. His eyes darted around nervously, as if he expected at any minute to be accosted or apprehended, his freedom revoked once again.

None of them seemed particularly surprised to see her with Harry. The other officers, Pitman and Boxhall, gave her nods of acknowledgement; they were familiar with her by now, having seen (and heard) her enough in the past week. Charles gave her a warm smile edged with sympathy. Ismay completely ignored her presence.

She stood by Harry's side, feeling numb, until the train whistle shrieked, making her jump in surprise. The sound brought back the memory of Titanic's much louder and deeper blasts only a few short weeks ago, and she suppressed a shudder. Around her, outgoing passengers began clutching their bags and children, making for the carriage doors, preparing to board.

It was time to say goodbye, then.

Her heart turned over painfully in her chest. I won't cry, she promised herself. I won't cry...

Maintaining a firm grip on her composure, she went over to Charles first. Although preoccupation with Harry's imminent departure was foremost on her mind, she hadn't forgotten how fond she was of his former commanding officer - or how much she was going to miss him. She took his hand and held it in both of hers as she smiled up at him. "Godspeed, my friend," she said tenderly. She then stood on tiptoe and pulled him closer, so that only he would hear what she had to say next. "Try to stay out of trouble - and keep warm," she whispered in his ear.

He leaned back and gazed down at her, looking both surprised and deeply moved. He stood there, unable to speak for a moment, and then: "Take care of yourself, Corrine," he said unsteadily. He covered her hands with his remaining one and squeezed them between his, then released her.

She turned to Harry then, but the words she wanted to say turned to ashes in her mouth. It felt so final, like he was leaving forever; this must have been how those wives on the Titanic felt when they left their husbands standing on the deck. Panic suddenly clawed its way up her throat. Would he be safe? Would they ever see one another again? How was she going to find the strength to let him walk away?

He saw the despair in her eyes and pulled her off to the side for a little privacy. "Please be strong for me, my darling," he whispered. And in an instant, she knew. She could do it for him; no other appeal would have worked. She nodded, unable to speak, and he gathered her into his arms.

* * *

Even in the midst of his heartache, Harold could feel two sets of eyes focused intently on them. Slowly, deliberately, he let his hands roam up and down the length of Corrine's body as he held her, marking his territory as if she were his possession - as in a way, she was. He opened his eyes as he did it, returning the stares insolently. Ismay watched them with a combination of chagrin and dismay, while Lightoller finally looked away uncomfortably.

She's mine, you sorry bastards, he thought contemptuously. I may be leaving her here for now, but she'll always be mine.

We are one.

Then, forgetting the world around them entirely, he turned his attention back to the love of his life. He could feel her trembling in his arms, trying to hold back her desolation and be brave for him. It pierced the thin veneer of his own self-control like a spear. He had never felt so helpless in his life. Since he was fourteen, he had been looking after himself; if he wanted something, he simply did whatever it took to get it. But then again, he had never had anything to lose before. And now that he did, there was nothing he could do, no action he could take, that would make it better for the one person that mattered the most to him.

As he held her, his mind was filled with visions of their time together, as vividly as if they were happening all over again. He squeezed his eyes shut as he once again relived those beautiful moments with the woman who had taught him the meaning of unconditional love. The pain of knowing that this part of their life was over, that they would never again be in this place and time together, nearly tore him to shreds. But he couldn't let it show; he wouldn't allow her to bear the burden of his grief as well as her own. What he needed to do was assure her that they would make many more memories together, and that in the meantime, the ones they made in the past week were a tangible thread that would hold them together. But it was hard to summon the eloquence he needed when he could barely force the words past the lump in his throat. He settled for simplicity and sincerity instead. "This is not the end, Corrine," he reminded her softly, so that only she could hear. "It is only the beginning for us."

"How do you know?" she whispered almost inaudibly.

"I just know." And somehow, for her - and for him - that was enough.

They stood, still as statues, locked in their embrace, until all the other passengers had embarked. As the conductor bellowed his last call, they didn't exchange promises, or make any grand declarations. There wasn't any need. Only a clasping of hands, a few last whispered words, a long lingering kiss... and then he dropped his arms, letting her go. Just before the doors closed, Harold turned away from her, handed the conductor his ticket, and stepped up into the coach.

* * *

He vanished for a moment, and Corrine waited restlessly until he appeared again, sitting in a window seat. He didn't wave, and neither did she. The gesture seemed too cheery, too lighthearted, for the profound heaviness they were experiencing. Instead, he lifted a hand and pressed it against the window, his eyes locked on hers.

She raised her hand as well and held it up as the train slowly pulled away from the platform. And she saw his lips moving as he mouthed those three little words that he had imprinted on her heart along with his initials, the words that transcended all the time and space that would soon be between them.

I love you.

She waited until the train was completely out of sight before letting the tears flow at last.

* * *

And now hopefully you understand why we had to go through all that angst: the sinking, the breakup, Harry's interludes, and now this. Because this was never a story about a girl who was saved by an officer; the story I've been telling all along is about an officer who was saved by a girl.

I was so in my feelings on this one, so the soundtrack to this chapter is What Am I - Why Don't We


	47. Chapter 38: After

Well, here it is - the last chapter of W&S. Fittingly, I'm posting on RealLowe's birthday ;) There's some smut in the middle, if you're looking to avoid the M sections. But stick around for the end - hopefully I've made it worth the wait. And once again, THANK YOU to all who had read my little book over the past year!

This chapter - and the whole story, really - is dedicated to my dearest friend, Rosie.

* * *

Harry left, but Corrine stayed in Washington. She had a steady job, she made a decent wage, and the work wasn't too taxing. Besides, she had grown quite fond of that 'upstart country', as Harry had so derisively called America while on the Carpathia. She had silently disagreed with him then as now, and, having nowhere else to be, and not wanting to return to either her father's house or her uncle's house now that she was a woman grown, she decided to stay for a time.

She followed the British inquiry intently, although by this time the Titanic had fallen from front-page news in America, and it was more difficult to find adequate coverage of the developments overseas. Still, she went out of her way to search out information - and Harry's constant letters helped keep her updated as well. To her immense relief, the Titanic's officers were not held culpable for the disaster. Like the American inquiry, the British one found that a combination of excessive speed and too few lifeboats were responsible for the tremendous loss of life, but stopped short of accusing the officers themselves of negligence. The good news meant that Harry was free to continue his career. As promised, he was shipped off to the Australian route after the inquiry ended, a voyage that took several months. And also as promised... she waited for him.

She moved to a boarding house closer to the Hotel Continental, but she still saw Katie as frequently as she could, mostly on Sundays at Mass, when Katie had the mornings off. But she kept to herself for the most part, and spent the majority of her time writing letters. She wrote to her father and uncle, of course, assuring them that she was doing well in America and telling them all about the country and its people. She wrote frequently to Kate, who was still living in New York and now engaged to Daniel Buckley, as well as to Charles Lightoller, who had returned to his beloved Sylvia at last but was now again at sea. She maintained a pleasant back and forth correspondence with both Rene Harris and May Futrelle. She wrote brief but heartfelt letters to every member of lifeboat 14's rescue crew, who had plucked her from the collapsible, as well as to Steward Hart. Olaus Abelseth also received a warm letter of appreciation. She sent an impassioned, emotional letter to Ada Murdoch, detailing the last moments of her husband's life, and expressing her unending admiration and gratitude for his bravery. She even wrote to Thomas's mother, to tell her that her son died bravely, helping others. A lie was the least she could do to ease a family's grief.

So she stayed, and she wrote, and each night after she finished her letter to Harry, she took out a blank book that she had bought as a journal, and she wrote some more, this time about her life with him. From their chance meeting that first day at Southampton, she described their stolen moments on Titanic, the terrifying evacuation, their separation and her near death, the joy and tension of the Carpathia, and the passionate reconciliation during the American inquiry. She recorded it all, little by little filling the small book. It was cathartic, but more than that, it allowed her to relive and savor every detail, however painful. It was their story, and it needed to be told, to be remembered.

She was four months along with their child when she finished.

* * *

When she feared she wouldn't be able to hide her condition for very much longer, she wrote to Harry. She knew he was between ships at the moment, so there was no better time to tell him. In truth, though, she was apprehensive. The sea was his life, and although she knew he loved her with all his heart, she wasn't sure if he had ever wanted the responsibilities of a family to support, even though they both knew it was a possibility, given the vigor and frequency of their lovemaking during the American inquiry.

His response to the news was rapturous. Come to me at once, his letter said. I need you. He enclosed enough money to book an entire second-class stateroom all to herself. Two days later, she took a train to New York, and sailed on the Adriatic for Liverpool.

* * *

She spent almost the entirety of the voyage in her cabin.

She never once set foot on the promenade deck, and only emerged for quick trips to the lavatories. She ate almost nothing; her stomach heaved with fear, anxiety, morning sickness, and mal de mer. She remembered laughingly telling Harry, a lifetime ago, that steerage passengers never got seasick. Now here she was, comfortably ensconced in a private second-class stateroom, vomiting away her days and nights.

A steward looked in on her once and saw her sleeping, fully clothed on her bunk, with her lifebelt on.

* * *

He was waiting for her on the dock as she disembarked.

He wore a natty-looking suit and a small bowler instead of his White Star uniform and cap. But he was still her Harry. At the sight of him, all her discomforts and fears were forgotten, and her knees went weak. It was all she could do not to fall to the ground at his feet. Instead, she flew down the gangway and into his waiting arms.

He swung her around in a wide circle, laughing, heedless of the crowds. She kissed him hard, right then and there, and she didn't care if the world was watching. They were together again; her heart had come home.

* * *

They could scarcely keep their hands off of one another in the hired cab on the way back to the small row house he had rented for them. Her hand was halfway down his trousers before she came to herself and realized where she was. His eyes were glazed with lust, and it took all his considerable self-restraint to pay the driver and escort her up the stairs to the front door. Stumbling, kissing, fumbling with buttons and fasteners, they found their way to the bedroom at last.

She was burning for his touch, needed to feel him on her, inside of her. And yet, he hesitated, gazing at her in the dim room, the lamplight casting shadows on the planes of his chiseled chest. He took her hand, guided her to the bed, and lay down beside her.

He let his eyes, and then his hands, travel slowly up and down the contours of her body. Gently, so gently, he stroked her cheek, her arms, her legs, her hip. "You're just as I left you," he whispered.

"Maybe a little different," she said huskily, touching the slight swell of her belly.

He kissed her then, a deep, penetrating kiss that brought a moan to her lips. He slid his hand down her stomach and parted her thighs. With his thumb, he began running lazy circles over her swollen, sensitive nub. She moaned again and leaned into him, needing more, more... but he kept up the gentle pressure, now sliding two fingers inside of her as he continued kissing and nibbling her lips. She thrust her hips upward, and he penetrated her deeper with his fingers, at the same time gliding his wet tongue down her neck. She gasped as his lips touched her erect nipples, and when his tongue circled around one, she arched her back and clung to him desperately. The gentle but insistent stroking from his tongue and fingers drove her into a frenzy in a matter of minutes, and to her embarrassment, she climaxed, abruptly and loudly.

When she came back to herself, she found him watching her, a crooked smile on his lips.

"I'm sorry," she blushed. "It's... been awhile," she said, realizing that she was mirroring his own words from a few months ago, "and... I think I'm more sensitive down there now that I'm expecting."

His grin widened. "I'm glad to hear that," he said, and slid his body over hers.

* * *

He was none too gentle with her that night.

He tried, he really did; he wanted to take his time, show her how much he loved her and missed her. He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her slowly, tenderly, ease into her and with gentle strokes, pleasure her all night long. Plus, he didn't know what effect their lovemaking would have on the baby in her belly, and he wanted to be cautious.

She was having none of it.

She thrust her hips at him, urging him faster, faster. Her nails scraped down his back, drawing blood, as she writhed under him. She screamed his name and begged for more. She even cussed a few times, which would have made him laugh if he hadn't been otherwise occupied. He took her from behind so hard that the headboard banged against the wall. Their frantic lovemaking pulled the sheets off the corner of bed. She decorated him with little love bites all over his neck and chest as she straddled him.

Twice, they heard a knocking on the door, loud and insistent. They ignored it.

Finally - finally - her lust had slackened enough that he was able to have his way with her. He slowed, locking eyes with her as he slid in and out of her with deliberate, unhurried strokes. The languid pace increased the sensation for both of them - and heightened their emotional connection as well. Ultimately, the unbearable sweetness of their reunion was too much for her to bear. She was weeping when they finally peaked and reached paradise together.

Afterward, he dried her tears and fussed over her, cooing endearments in her ear as he snuggled her tightly to him. When the tide of her emotions had receded, he brought a warm, damp cloth and gently cleaned her. When he found that this aroused her, too, he knelt between her legs on the bed. Gazing up at her, he flicked his tongue at her nub. He prodded and poked, licked and sucked, enjoying the view, the angle, the taste.

And it drove her mad. She was incoherent with desire, surrendering her body entirely. He thrust his tongue inside her, watching her grow more and more desperate for release, and savoring her helpless submission to him. Finally, with one final scream, and contraction of her muscles, she came with a pulse of fluid that wetted him thoroughly, to his utter delight.

When he crept up beside her, he found to his amusement that she was fast asleep. Whether she had fainted from the force of their extended lovemaking session, or just collapsed from exhaustion, she now lay peacefully, her long hair tangled over the pillow and her lips curled in a satisfied smile.

Three to one, he thought wearily as he flopped back beside her sleeping form. That's about right.

* * *

When she saw the damage she had done to his body the next morning, she was mortified.

"Oh, Harry, I'm so sorry," she gasped, touching the marks with the tips of her fingers. "I think I lost my mind completely last night." She went to get a cloth to clean them, but he grabbed her hand.

"It's fine, Corrine. I'm sure it won't be the last time." He couldn't stop looking at her, she noticed. And his smile... it seemed so, so... serene. Why, I think the darkness is finally lifting from his soul at last, she thought with surprise.

She soon found out the reason. He was full to bursting with anticipation about the baby - and their future.

He had grabbed a hasty takeaway breakfast from a pub around the corner, and she was eating ravenously. Her appetite had returned with a vengeance, and she devoured everything he put in front of her. While she was greedily scraping the last of the fried egg her from her plate, he asked, "Do you think we... hurt the baby last night?" His dark eyes were filled with concern.

"No," she hurried to reassure him. "The doctor said that intimacy is perfectly fine during this time." She smiled. "Besides, this is our child. I'm sure he will be quite a hardy soul."

"He?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Yes," she replied confidently, and he just grinned and said nothing more.

Suddenly, she felt a flutter, low in her belly. She waited, sure she had imagined it... but yes, there it was again. The slightest movement... but unlike anything she had ever felt before. It was deliberate: the action of another entity, another soul, asserting itself in her body.

"The baby just kicked me," she whispered rapturously.

He eyes went round with wonder. "Are you sure? How do you know?"

"I just know," she choked out, her eyes filling with tears of joy.

He placed a hand on her belly, staring into her eyes as he waited...

"Was that it?" he asked, when he felt the tiny movement in the palm of his hand.

She nodded, heart too full for words.

He swept her off the chair and carried her back to the bedroom, where he lavished her with kisses - and a few tears as well.

* * *

"So what now, Corrine?"

They had been lazing around most of the afternoon, not saying much, just content to be in one another's presence again. Currently, she was laying across the settee, her head in his lap as he stroked her hair. At the sound of his question, she opened her eyes and turned her head to look up at him.

"What do you mean, Harry?"

"I mean, what's next for us?" he asked. She felt a tension in his body that had not been there a minute ago, and she sat up so that she was facing him. It dawned on her that she had asked him a very similar question months ago, during the inquiry. This time, though, she had an answer.

"I'm not going back," she said quietly. She had made up her mind as soon as she found out she was with child, and in the two days before she left Washington, she had quit her job, said a teary good-bye to Katie (who had finally found her match in a French diplomat that was just as passionate about her as she was about him), and packed all of her meager possessions to bring with her. "I want to stay here... with you. I mean, I know you're going back to sea," she amended quickly, "but I'd rather be waiting for you here than there."

"But what about your dream of living in America?" he asked in genuine bewilderment.

"My dreams have changed, Harry," she countered softly, taking his hand and twining her fingers in it.

He took a moment to process this, staring down at their linked hands before looking up at her with a look of dumbfounded, blinding gratitude. But that expression quickly gave way to one of sly amusement. "A pity, that," he drawled.

She raised her eyebrow questioningly.

"I was just becoming resigned to the fact that I was going to have to move there to be with you," he admitted, a twinkle in his eyes.

Her eyes widened. "You would... do that? You'd go to America, for me?"

"I would do anything for you," he vowed.

"But I thought you hated it there," she said, bemused.

"Well, then I suppose I love you more than I hate America," he grinned.

"Oh, Harry," she whispered, and threw her arms around his neck. Her gratitude and love for him threatened to overwhelm her, and she had to fight off another round of happy tears. "I don't care where we live, so long as we're together. But we can decide all that later... after the baby is born. For now, I just want to be with you for as long as I can." She sat back and gazed into his eyes, smiling deliriously.

To her surprise, he pulled away and stood abruptly. "Speaking of..." He left and went into the bedroom, emerging again almost immediately. He stood in front of her, hands hidden, looking suddenly nervous.

"Corrine, I have something to show you." He produced an intricate carved wooden spoon from behind his back. "I made this for you, on my Australia voyage." His hands were shaking as they held it out to her. "It's called a lovespoon. It's a tradition in Wales." He stopped and swallowed, as if gathering his courage. "It's a promise, of commitment, of love." He pointed to the designs carved into it. "The lock means that I will keep you safe and look after you, always. The anchor means I wish to settle down with you." To her shock, he lowered himself to one knee in front of her. "And the bells mean that I want to marry you, Corrine." Now his voice was trembling as well.

She sat there, mouth agape, staring at him in utter stupefaction. And here she thought her heart couldn't be more full... She fell to the floor next to him, threw her arms around his neck and burst into giant, gulping sobs.

He patted her back soothingly as her tears soaked his shirt. "Is... is that a yes, Corrine?" he asked, baffled.

She pulled back to look him in the eyes, still blubbering. "Can I say yes a million times?"

"Well, you do have to say it at least once," he scolded, still looking apprehensive.

"Then yes!" she shrieked, nearly bowling him over with her enthusiastic affirmation.

He sighed with relief, finally relaxing at last. She noticed, and looked at him incredulously.

"You were afraid I was going to turn you down?" she choked in disbelief.

"Well, no, actually," he said, his usual breezy manner returning. "As far as I'm concerned, we've been engaged since I called you my betrothed on the boat deck of the Titanic." He gave her an arrogant smirk. "But recently I received a letter from a friend of yours telling me in no uncertain terms that I needed to make it official." He quirked his eyebrow at her sardonically.

Corrine laughed through her tears. It had to be Charles.

She covered his face with kisses until they were both breathless. Finally, she asked, "What made you want to make an honest woman of me at last?"

He turned serious, staring intently into her eyes. "A better question might be, why did I wait so long? And the answer is, because I wanted to be worthy of you. I didn't want to come to you as I was: a broken and damaged man." He wiped the tear tracks from her cheeks tenderly.

She made a small sympathetic noise in her throat and reached out to caress his face. "Harry, you are not broken - any more than I am. We have both suffered, it's true; but together... together we are whole. We are one," she reminded him gently.

But he continued, undeterred, needing her to understand. "Before I asked you to share my life, I wanted to make sure I could give you everything you deserved - children, a stable life, a happy home. I want to make all your wishes come true, Corrine."

"Oh, Harry, you already have," she whispered. She thought about a wish made on a shooting star on a cold April night in the North Atlantic, on a ship that no longer existed... a wish that this moment would last forever. And now, at long last, it seemed it would.

It dawned on her now that her heart had known it instantly when they met in Southampton so long ago. Their destinies had been decided in that first moment, as if written in the stars above. And although the fulfillment of that promise had been fraught at times with pain and anguish, even in the darkest times, it was always meant to be the two of them together in the end.

As the epiphany flooded through her, she cupped his face in her hand, wanting to tell him all of it - but Harry stopped her with a finger to her lips. Touching his forehead to hers, he whispered, "I already know."

She gazed deeply into the eyes of the man she loved. For once, the storm of emotions usually present in them had cleared... and what she saw instead was a calm assurance of the beautiful future they would share.

She couldn't stop the tears leaking from her eyes any more than she could stop the love welling in her heart. "Mrs. Harold Lowe," she sighed blissfully, trying on the name for size. "Oh, Harry, I can hardly wait to spend the rest of our lives together," she breathed, nuzzling his neck and wetting him once again with her euphoric weeping.

Suddenly, he scooped her off the floor into his arms. "I can think of no better way to celebrate the beginning of it," he growled as he carried her off to the bedroom again.

* * *

That night, she was awakened by the press of his body against her back. She had been lying on her side, and was still half-asleep as he entered her. He reached around to cup her breasts, then her rounded belly, as he slid slowly in and out of her. Sleepily, dreamily, her body rocked back and forth in time to his movements, and she realized with a sense of peace in her heart that it reminded her of the rocking of a ship - only infinitely safer.

* * *

Southampton Times

Titanic Survivors Wed

By Emrys Owen, Barmouth Correspondent

On November 1, 1912 , Mr. Harold G. Lowe, 29, formerly Fifth Officer of the Titanic, wed Miss Corrine E. Donnelly, 22, at the Lowe family home of Penrallt in Barmouth, Wales.

The blushing bride, who was noticeably with child, was given away by both her father, Mr. Frank Donnelly of Clonakilty, County Cork, and her uncle, Mr. John Baker of Southampton. Representing the groom was his father, Mr. George Lowe.

Sources close to the couple say that they met on the ill-fated maiden voyage of the Titanic, and that Mr. Lowe saved the life of his bride, as well as many others, on that terrible night.

The bride and groom received many gifts, including a match case from Miss S. R. Compton of New York for the groom 'With Gratitude', and a set of the finest nautical instruments money can buy, which was sent from Mrs. H. B. Harris of New York, with the inscription 'The real hero of the Titanic'. The groom also received the strange gift of a small iron key from Mr. C. H. Lightoller, former Second Officer of the Titanic. The note accompanying it was most intriguing: 'Was finally able to track this down. I think you should have it, although I'm fairly certain you have already found the key. Don't lose it.' The same Mr. Lightoller also sent an exquisite and very expensive shawl, designed by Lady Duff Gordon, to the bride, 'so that you never have to feel cold again.'

For the time being, the couple plans to reside in Barmouth, although they remain open to the possibility of emigrating to America in a few years "if my bride wills it so."

When the groom was asked what he was going to do now, after the greatest marine tragedy in history, he was quoted as saying, "I just want to live an ordinary life, with an extraordinary woman."

* * *

Well, folks, that's it. We've reached the end; the two wanderers have found their way home at last ;)

This story could have ended very differently: with an obituary instead of a wedding announcement. It would have been very easy to bring everything in compliance with history by killing off Corrine and her baby in childbirth, allowing Harold Lowe to marry his real-life wife, Ellen, the following year. But... I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I grew to love Corrine too much during the course of writing this tale, and although it brings us firmly into alternative universe territory, I wanted to give them their happily ever after. So please forgive - and indulge - a sentimental author, Dear Readers!

Now that being said, if you're interested, please stick around for the Epilogues; there's still a little more of #harrine's story to tell ;)


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